So there I was, full of joy and merry to disembark the Easyjet cattle transport that had brought me to Newcastle late after I had spent one and a half hours sitting next to a close to hysterical woman and her boyfriend the age of her father. I was dead tired even before I started and everybody who has ever taken an Easyjet flight will join my manic laughter at the thought of sleeeping in the plane.
Anyway, had I known that this was just the start of one hell of a trip, I would have given in and booked a hotel right then and there.
I picked up my car. A Ford Fiesta. ... TOO SMALL, DAMMIT!! I felt like squeezing into a shoebox, started the 12 PS engine and tuckert off.
The road was really creepy, as between Newcastle and Edinburgh, you pass about two cities in an otherwise deserted stretch of country. There was practically no one on the road, it was late, I was tired and melancholic, it was dark, it was cold, it was raining, it was foggy and I just wanted to get the hell home. On the way I stopped in a town to change the CD, as I just didn't dare even thinking about stopping next to the unlit and lonely road.
I finally made it to more civilized regions, the first time I felt really good was when I passed the summit after which I could see the orange see of illuminated Edinburgh beneath me.
Eventually I reached the city bypass, took the right direction (heyhey!) and already saw me sitting in Lady Rachel's living room, sipping a cup of tee and then going to bed. I knew I had to take the next exit, so when the nice white line on my left hand side turned dotted, I pulled over.
Big fucking mistake.
There was a horrible bang, the car slowed down suddenly and the hub cap came flying over my head and crashed onto the street, where it was to be run over several times until this present moment.
Pandemomnium!!!
I stopped the car and got out.
The tire had retired. It was a goner! What I had mistaken for my exit was in fact the entrance to an emergency layby, which was seperated from the motorway by a kerb.
Which was completely unilluminated and in the dark not to be seen.
Which I had hit.
With the left front tire.
At 70 miles an hour.
Not good.
dramatisation
First thing I tried to call the Hertz people.
Which I couldn't with my german mobile.
I then went over to the emergency phone in order to call a towing truck. Which didn't work. (I didn't know that emergency phones can say "sorry, your call can not be copleted as dialled...", but apparently they can.)
I also tried to stop someone, but no-one did. Either they didn't see me or they are all a bunch of fucking cunts! Either way, I felt as low as a snake's belly in a pit.
I was cold, I was tired, I was all alone right next to a freaking motorway just ten minutes before home. I just needed someone to help me, pleeeease!
So I called Paraguay Woman, who got me out of this mess by calling the Hertz people for me who then sent someone to help me. A chubby little man with the worst accent I had ever heard. He was mumbling, too and also my towning-truck-man-slang kind of seems to need working on. At least the friendly little man changed the tire and also I had managed to call the police in the meanwhile. The Hertz guy had told me to and so I did. Whatever!
The two police officers arrived just after the chubby one had finished the tire changing. They just made sure that everything was fine and I could drive off.
After the shock had ebbed down, it dawned on me: it was just a silly flat tire. I had the spare tire. I had the tools. I could have changed that thing myself.
...OH NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! PANDEMONIUM STRIKES AGAIN!!! I'M A WOMAN DRIVER!!!! I WILL HAVE TO BUY A REAR-VIEW-MIRROR-DIDDL-MOUSE AND SOME STUFFED ANIMALS TO COMPLETELY COVER MY DASH BOARD!!! AAARHGGG!
In my defense:
My spirits were more then low. The help I needed was more of the mental and moral kind. Had I not been alone, things might have been different.
Also a real woman driver probably doesn't know what a dashboard is. (It's the thing in front of you, Ladies, the one covered in cute little stuffed things that will turn into cute little ballistic missiles once you have a crash which sooner or later you are very likely to!)
Sorry, I needed that for my ego.
Eventually, I drove off, direction of Brunswick Street, to meet my Lady saviour. Ten minutes later I turned a corner into her street, when I saw something bright and colourful in my rear view mirror. It was blue to be precise. And flashing. And it had "POLICE" written on it. They obviously wanted me to stop.
I had to think of Charly the Unicorn, yelling "I'm right here, whaddouyou want??"
There was a nice officer, almost apologizing for stopping me, asking me whether I would mind stepping out of the car for a second. Of course I didn't. Again: whatever!
He told me that there seemed to be something wrong with my car and I told him that I had recently had a minor accident. "When was that?" he asked and I looked him in the eye and said "I left the scene ten minutes ago." I also told him that there had been two collegues of him, which one of the other police men checked. He then took my details, asked me whether I had drunk anything that night and then was very impressed by my driving licence. ("Wow, that looks formal!" - "Yes, we Germans are very serious about our driving licences.")
Two minutes later I finally reached my destination, more dead then alive, tried to completely get over my shock and an hour or so later finally went to bed.
It was half three by then, and I had to get up at about ten, because, of course, no flat tire in the world can stop us from watching Gilmore Girls on saturday mornings.
The poor little car!!
It's not his fault he is that small, he got abused, hurt and, during the night, shat on twice by birds.
The lesson learned can only be:
Next time a bigger car again, everything else is bad luck!
