A case of Claustrophobic Gearbox

This morning I had to rush over to the guys who fitted our front door for a replacement letterbox. The flap failed first thing this morning as the lads were getting off the school and with rain forecast I was intent on replacing it before getting in to work.

Tragically, my car had other ideas. Specifically, the gearbox developed a taste for the outdoors life and made a bid for freedom. A gentle pop signalled the failure of the housing and a rhythmic splurging noise the rapid exit of very warm and dirty oil. I didn’t know this at the time, I just recognised the sounds of something very very wrong.

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Seeing the escaping fluid I called out the RAC man who diagnosed as far as “What oil I put in the top will only fall out the bottom” and promptly towed me to the garage.

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The garage, Stan Reynolds, phoned later to explain the gearbox problem (absence of oil indicates catastrophic failure either likely or already happened) and promised a phone call tomorrow to give me an estimate. I fear very much that the time has come to give it a last run round the paddock and call the knackers.

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Oh, and the letterbox? Three and a half hours after I set out for the bit, it was done. Hurrah for small victories.

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