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avevale_intelligencer) wrote2011-09-02 03:44 pm
avevale_intelligencer) wrote2011-09-02 03:44 pm
Part throo
It was ten to ten when I deposited what was now starting to seem like a large flashing red light surrounded by a thin skin of car, and the parts were confidently expected on the ten o'clock van. Off I went to spend two hours in beautiful Wisbech, jewel in the crown of the Fenlands. (This time I left Jan with Maureen, which was altogether a better idea. She got to meet grandchildren and daughters-in-law and chat to her cousin, so when I got back I found an unstressed and sympathetic Countess, and that was nice.)
I found a bookshop. Mostly reduced cook books and kids' stuff, but it was a genuine bookshop, which puts Wisbech one up on Westbury. I found a little back street full of tattoo parlours and Polish grocers. I looked into Saint Peter and Saint Paul's church (Norman in origin, sensitively rebuilt by George Gilbert Scott) and sat in the library looking at "And Another Thing..." without taking anything in. And I went to G W Frank the butcher, who make the best pork pies in Britain unless you know of better, and got a couple. And then I gouged a huge hole in the does-not-exist money and went back to Kwik-Fit.
You know what's coming next. Say it with me:
The parts had only just turned up.
They were there. I could see them. And to be fair, I could see a huge difference between the shiny new brake discs and the very much smaller raggedy-edged ones on the car. But they had only just arrived, sorry about that, it'll be another two hours.
The next three hours were hell. I couldn't face walking anywhere else. So I sat in the reception area of Kwik-Fit in Wisbech and made casual conversation (not my strong suit or something I enjoy) with the guy behind the counter, while with what seemed glacial slowness the discs were fitted to the car, and the pads to the discs (I think), and the brake fluid changed, and the wheels put back on, and the guy took it for a test drive to make sure it was all right. I'm not sure where he went--it felt like Hunstanton or thereabouts--but at last he was back, and the car was...was back up on the ramp, and he was fiddling about underneath it, and then letting it down so he could look under the bonnet.
"Okay," he said. "It's all fixed, it's working fine. Just one problem. The warning light's still flashing and we don't know why."
By now I was too enfeebled even to register a question.
"It may go off once the new brakes have bedded in, but if it doesn't then you've got another problem, probably a chafed wire or something," came from somewhere in the misty distance. "But the plugs are all in right, and the brakes are working, and that's the main thing, £££ please."
I handed over half my kingdom, signed a piece of paper, got a receipt, and drove my flashing red light home, little voices in my head saying things like suppose it was the light all along and there was nothing wrong with the brakes and you've just handed over £££ for nothing, you schmuck?
And meanwhile, back at the DC's place...
I found a bookshop. Mostly reduced cook books and kids' stuff, but it was a genuine bookshop, which puts Wisbech one up on Westbury. I found a little back street full of tattoo parlours and Polish grocers. I looked into Saint Peter and Saint Paul's church (Norman in origin, sensitively rebuilt by George Gilbert Scott) and sat in the library looking at "And Another Thing..." without taking anything in. And I went to G W Frank the butcher, who make the best pork pies in Britain unless you know of better, and got a couple. And then I gouged a huge hole in the does-not-exist money and went back to Kwik-Fit.
You know what's coming next. Say it with me:
The parts had only just turned up.
They were there. I could see them. And to be fair, I could see a huge difference between the shiny new brake discs and the very much smaller raggedy-edged ones on the car. But they had only just arrived, sorry about that, it'll be another two hours.
The next three hours were hell. I couldn't face walking anywhere else. So I sat in the reception area of Kwik-Fit in Wisbech and made casual conversation (not my strong suit or something I enjoy) with the guy behind the counter, while with what seemed glacial slowness the discs were fitted to the car, and the pads to the discs (I think), and the brake fluid changed, and the wheels put back on, and the guy took it for a test drive to make sure it was all right. I'm not sure where he went--it felt like Hunstanton or thereabouts--but at last he was back, and the car was...was back up on the ramp, and he was fiddling about underneath it, and then letting it down so he could look under the bonnet.
"Okay," he said. "It's all fixed, it's working fine. Just one problem. The warning light's still flashing and we don't know why."
By now I was too enfeebled even to register a question.
"It may go off once the new brakes have bedded in, but if it doesn't then you've got another problem, probably a chafed wire or something," came from somewhere in the misty distance. "But the plugs are all in right, and the brakes are working, and that's the main thing, £££ please."
I handed over half my kingdom, signed a piece of paper, got a receipt, and drove my flashing red light home, little voices in my head saying things like suppose it was the light all along and there was nothing wrong with the brakes and you've just handed over £££ for nothing, you schmuck?
And meanwhile, back at the DC's place...