This evening has seen the latest episode in the soap opera that is my serial ownership of cars. I’m not complaining about this car in particular, but generally my cars are great until they suddenly develop a fault that’s expensive or going to seriously increase the running costs and I have to find a new one.
This car is different. I have enjoyed running issues with the electrics, from a brake light cable that simply won’t play the game through to an alternator rewind last summer which was totally spurious when it turned out the accessories belt wasn’t at the right angle to enage it in the first place.
So imagine my deep joy and delight when this evening the car finally gave up the will to start and left me stranded more or less on my own driveway without the means to get it going again.
I could have jump started it if I’d had anything to jump off. Jumping off things seemed like an attractive solution about thirty seconds after the final failed attempt to start the infernal machine.
With some support from my beloved father, and more importantly with the help of his trickle charger, we are adding juice to the battery as I write, a charge transfusion which I hope will revolutionise the performance of the car tomorrow and give me a few more weeks in which to find either a new battery or a fresh alternator belt. Because a fresh alternator would cost serious money, which I’m fresh out of.
Maybe if I can scrape together £99 a month I can go and get me a little Pug to run arounud in, because at the moment my big cat is well and truly in the doghouse.