Well. Where to begin?

I will begin two weeks ago. Saturday morning in fact. There I was at the local gas station, pondering at how quickly you can put £10 of petrol in a car these days as always. I was just put the nozzle back into the pump when I noticed a small jet of unleaded squirting out. Looking down I noticed that my entire lower body was convered in petrol. I also noticed that the pump appeared to have been clumsily patched recently with masking tape.

I tried not to panic but it was difficult. Any second now, some chav could leap out of his VW Golf with a fag “on” and I would be a gonner. Anyway, slithering in that way that I suppose someone who had just wet themselves would, I squelched into the mini-mart (as they now choose to call themselves) and presented my all-to-apparant grievance. I suggested that she might like to turn off the pumps but this was obviously ridiculous as this would stop all the other pumps too. Plainly I was being a complete cretin. Alternatively, I suggested I might visit the Fire Station round the corner and see what they thought about it. This changed things and two customers were immediately forced to stare in wonder at their suddenly frozen pump.

So, the shoes, coat and levis were ruined beyond repair.

I was assured the pump had been professionally repaired by their maintainers (insert a well know company more usually associated with door locks). I would have stayed and laughed but the fumes were starting to get to me and I needed to take off my human suicide costume. As I sped home in the car I smiled at the thought that I had not paid for the £10 of petrol - at least half of which was now in the car - result! Once home, I threw the coat and shoes into the garden, retired inside and threw my jeans out of the window. The garage bod had promised that the owner would ring me but despite staying in for the rest of the day, the phone never rang.

By 11am the next day, I still hadn’t heard as much as a peep so I drove back up there. The pump was now marked as unusuable and had enough masking tape on it to cover Boris Karloff from head to foot. The place that had squirted me was now a masking tape melon, created I suspect, not by a bonded and insured professional maintenance engineer but by the same person who had taped it the night before, either because they were untrained and badly supervised which wouldn’t be their fault or because they couldn’t be arsed. I guess I will never know either way.

The manager never rang me so I wrote to him, enclosing an estimate for the cost of replacing my ruined clothes. Two days later, a cheque for £200 plonked onto the doormat accompanied by an apologetic letter.

So, did I let them off too lightly? Probably. Numerous friends and family members encouraged me to do more but what would be the point? Would it stop the same thing happening again? Probably not. Would it make the world a better place? Almost certainly not. Do I still buy my petrol there? Yes…. Its close and convenient you see…

So we leap on two weeks to just yesterday. On my way back from taking mother out to breakfast on Dartmoor (don’t laugh…the Dartmoor Diner does a lovely scrambled egg on toast) I popped into another petrol station (same company actually). I stayed pleasingly dry whilst sticking £20 in the car and went in to pay. The shop was busy, so after barging towards the door I had to reverse out again to let someone pass. I paid the cash and got back in the car. Now where were by bloody keys? Usually, they are in one of 9 pockets and usually turn out to be in the 9th. This time however, I was stumped. No worries. I must have left them on the counter. Nope. I walked back the car and we checked everywhere. Bloody everywhere, inside and out. Nothing.

Now I am pissed off. Really pissed off. So we checked everywhere again. Nothing

Apparantely (and this happens a lot, so say the staff at the garage), some idiot had picked my keys up and popped them in their own pocket by accident. Shit.

Time to ring the AA. They can’t do much except call a local locksmith. Still, like most people I have no spare keys. Whilst waiting for the locksmith, I decided to ring Honda in Plymouth to get a quote. It turns out that it will be a complete replacement of the ignition system - Parts £300 labour about £100. Shit again I wept quietly to myself.

The AA called back and tell me that Leo Locksmith can’t do me until 4pm (its about 11am at this point) so they will send a towtruck to get the car home. Leo Locksmith’s rough quote is £175 which is a little better than Honda’s at least.

So there I am. Glowering Mother. Immobile car. My credit just ran out on the mobile. A £175 bill would completely rule out Old Boys (again). I am not happy. I am sat on the bonnet of an immobile car looking at a display rack of newspapers and some horrible garage forecourt bunches of flowers in black buckets. One of the bunches has a small leather key fob in the middle. My key fob attached to my car keys. Yes. At the place where I had walked backwards out of the shop to let two people come out, the keys had dropped into a bunch of flowers.

With a rush of adrenalin and sudden high that would not have been out of place at one of Pete Docherty’s bbqs, I slid off the bonnet and landed on the oily forecourt.

The AA cancelled the locksmith, the garage staff had a good laugh and I swore to god that I would get a spare car key cut in the week.

No £175 bill. I shall still go to Old Boys.

How like me that would be. To get £200 off one branch of a large oil company’s garages one week and have to give it to a locksmith on the forecourt of another branch two weeks later?

You could not make this shit up.

Oh and before I go, this blog has been discovered by some nice people at work so I’d better stop talking about work and keep the swearing down to a more acceptable level.

Hello Mary and Amanda at the MDEC.

Categories: Anger, Don't laugh..., Money
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