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