So it’s Monday, and it’s my day off. I have been looking forward to today for the past 2 weeks. Today is my first day of being alone, and settled, and ready to do some work. No children housemates. No boxes to sort out. No Ikea to visit, no flatpack furniture to assemble. I have moved into my flat. I have the internet. I have a seat on the toilet, most of my clothes hanging in the wardrobe and exactly two chairs to choose between when I sit at the table. I am finally organised. Kind of. In an ‘-ish’ sort of way.
I also have a post big-weekend type of hangover, the pit of my stomach is all clenched and knotty, and my attitude towards myself and the world at large is mostly a resounding ‘meh!‘. My plans for being productive and all freelancey are slipping through my procrastinatative fingers as, instead of working on my website, or organising photos or joining networks or approaching magazines, I have spent the afternoon reading lots of blogs. Which is fun – granted – but isn’t going to bring in any money. For me. Although it might for those clever folks who have done that thing with ads and links and stuff that I can’t really get my head around. So, good for them. Not so good for me.
We spent the weekend in a lovely place called Bath. It’s pretty famous really, so you’ve probably heard of it. One of Mat’s old school chums went and got himself married, and as the girlfriend of the man who did the reading at the church (that would be Mat), I got invited along. As we are mostly 30-somethings these days, one could reasonably expect our drinking behaviour to be more mature and measured. We probably should have learned restraint by now. We know all too well the price of endless wine-guzzling. Which is why I swapped to G&Ts not long after dinner.
So, yes, we got drunk. Steaming, wobbling, not-quite-vomiting-though, drunk. Which is what weddings are all about, after all. Measured restraint is for occasions like – I don’t know – christenings perhaps? And also those other occasions where it’s not appropriate to drink till you fall. I haven’t been to many occasions like that. It’s a bit of a vague concept for me.
By 2am the reception was winding up, and by 3am we somehow managed to find our way back to the house where we were staying – no mean feat considering we had only arrived late on Friday evening and had – very bad planning, it’s not like we’re inexperienced in these things you know – left our trusty compass at home. Luckily, Bath is not very big and Mat remembered the all important street name. Mat remembering anything was a minor miracle at that point, as once he exited the cab showed himself to be so completely sozzled that he was unable to even walk himself through the front door. I was out of my dress, in my pajamas and about to hop into bed when I realised that my boyfriend was still reeling confusedly in the doorway. I guided him in – as much as I was capable of guiding, and really, I should be proud of us both for not falling over at this point – and then had to physically undress him and try to force-feed him water. He had regressed to a state where he was unable to even untie his shoes. Or take off his trousers. Although he did manage to traipse lots of wet mud into the house, which is one way of saying thank you to friends who let you stay for the weekend.
Sunday, as you can imagine, was one big hangover.
I coped, just about, with the waves of nausea and I hope I managed to not alienate all of Mat’s friends with my monosyllabic brilliance. It came to be time to leave, and as we were just about reconciled with the idea of a three hour drive back to London (which I kindly nominated Mat to undertake), The Rover let us down. (Stop sniggering anti-Roverites). Oh scuppered plans! The Rover was in no state to take us anywhere. He was suffering from a flat tyre on the rear-left wheel. I’m trying to be exact here, so that you can picture it precisely. It’s important to know which tyre we are talking about, otherwise the whole story could veer into the absurd.
A flat tyre is annoying, yes, but should not be crisis-inducing. Unless you are us, in which case a crisis is usually hiding around the nearest corner, excitedly waiting to make its debut.
There is a item on the wheel called a ‘locking nut’. As the name suggests, the ‘locking nut’ is locked, and can only be unscrewed with the aid of a ’special’ key. This ensures that tyre thieves are unable to thieve your tyres. Which is fab – I’m all for making life difficult for car-tyre thieves – but is not so fab if you, the owner, are unable to locate this ’special’ key. Suddenly, the simple process of changing a flat tyre spirals into an actually very much more complicated process indeed. We couldn’t get the wheel off without the ’special’ tool, and the ’special’ tool was nowhere to be found.
We went back to the house. We got on the internet. We made some phonecalls. We engaged in the bravado of assuring each other that there had to be a simple solution – “this sort of thing must happen ALL the time…Ha! Ha! …Etc!…” The news, however, was bleak. We were informed that without said ’special’ tool we were – in a word – screwed. There was talk of chiseling nuts, towing to garages and probably spending hideous amount of money, as well as Mat missing the second Monday of his brand new job as it was a Sunday afternoon and nothing is open in Bath because it is not like London. And so we rang the AA roadside breakdown assistance – of which incidentally, we are not members – but our hosts for the weekend, Jamie and Kay ARE members, and the AA are happy to help out friends of customers. A silver lining!
Now. You know how your computer doesn’t work until you call the IT man over to take a look, and then suddenly it’s just fine? Or you dig around in your handbag for ages, and it’s until you complain that you can’t find your keys (again) that they suddenly fall into your hand? Well…guess what? Our man from the AA arrived, and we set to the task of trying to find the ’special’ key once more. Do you see where this is going? Yes! We found it! How thoroughly embarrassing!
Still, at least our tyre could be changed by a professional. Not that I don’t trust the boys, but it’s just, well comforting, to have things done correctly by the people who make a living doing such things. And, as it turned out, our drama was far from over.
The ‘locking nut’ was finally unlocked. The tyre was removed. The spare was wrestled out of the boot. But, what’s this? Why is the man pausing? Something doesn’t look quite…right. The spare tyre didn’t fit. It wasn’t the correct wheel for our car. The used car salesman who had sold us The Rover had slipped an inappropriate spare into the boot. Who says used car salesmen are dodgy? On the footpath we now had a flat tyre that DID fit the car and an old, not-really-roadworthy but inflated tyre that DIDN’T fit the car. It was quite a conundrum. And fucking annoying.
Anyway, long story short (too late?) – the man inflated the flat tyre, did a check for leaks, and proclaimed it driveable. We hopped onto the Motorway, stopped for a tyre check part of the way back (the tyre was holding) and made it home in time to go straight to bed. And today, the tyre is still fine. So, possibly, the flat tyre was simply some kids having a laugh by letting our tyre down. Can’t you see how funny that prank can be? Yes, I’m chuckling here as I think over it. Comic genius.
Still, at least we now know all about the ’special’ nut and the corresponding ’special’ key, as well as having the comforting knowledge of a useless spare in the boot. I should have sourced a new wheel today, but basically, I just couldn’t be bothered.