Indeed and, what’s more, a rather poignant question, as I gaily fill my van with fuel, having jumped the queue a bit. Wait a moment… that nozzle is black, are they not usually green? Ah.
Whichever way I tilt my head, the needle is out of reserve and into no man’s land. Beyond empty. This means a fuel stop. Obviously, as I am running on vapour, the nearest petrol station will be closed or taking delivery. But this day, the god of motoring, sees my plight and nudges me in, just ahead of the tanker. I leap like a man 10 years my junior and in three swift, barely noticeable movements, I have opened the cap flicked the nozzle in and I am pumping. For about 12litres or so, whereupon i notice the unusually black nozzle. The dawning was quick and the pumping stopped.
Now, I am clearly no mechanic but I know not drive the vehicle when its got the wrong juice, so I have to push it somewhere. Being on my own, I begin the battle, half expecting a fellow motorist to see my struggle and aid me. Alas, no. It is the guy behind the till who comes to help, with the rest of the forecourt “watching” us. Bastards.
Now I have to get the van to a garage where they can drain the diesel and dispose of it. It is the disposal that is the trouble. You need to go to someone who has a license to safely dispose of the fuel. Not cheap. In fact, more expensive to dispose of than buy; £1.20 per litre.
Thankfully, the insurance we have, gets us free recovery (yes, even for making your own daft mistake). Unfortunately, they can’t find anyone to do the job that night, so very kindly, they offer to take me home with the van and then come and get it in the morning and take it to be fixed. Magic! So off we trot, with the van on the back of a truck.
It was a bit tight to get the van on to the drive, so we rolled it off and left it on the road outside the house. Not really any other options and anyway, they are going to pick it up again in a matter of hours. On the plus side, the driver reckons it could get picked up at 8 o’clock, so I could be on the way to the woods by ten.
By the morning, I feel a little less like breaking things but, I have yet to go outside. I make all the necessary phone calls, then go to check the van. Now, bearing in mind I couldn’t actually move the bloody thing, you’d probably be thinking that I would be quite cross if I had a parking ticket. I live in the bloody country. There’s probably only three cars went passed it all night and one of them was the police. It’s not like we have yellow lines or any signs at all. The ticket says parked in a 40mph zone unlit; and there’s probably an obscure rule in the highway code that we are all supposed to know off by heart.
Anyway, I can cope with all that. I don’t think I can blame anyone but myself for the whole saga. After all, had I done what I am always telling Jago (6) to do and concentrated at the petrol station, none of it would have happened. Ok, a thirty quid fine. But quite frankly, I don’t think I should have to pay that. Now, I’ve had parking tickets before and successfully argued their nullification; I’ve even had the adjudicator turn me down only for the magistrate to find in favour of me. All of this done by post without the need for personal appearances. Not in bloody North Somerset though, oh no. For here, you either pay or fill in a form for a hearing, where your mitigating circumstances can be listened to by some old bored people. I phoned the police to see if this really was the case and yes it effing is. No postal appeals, straight to court. This seems extremely unfair to me and rather un-english to boot. Your choice is to pay the £30 or go to court. So you go to court, it’s 20 miles away so you have associated travel costs, you’ve got to eat and you’ve taken the day off work/you’re paying someone to look after the kids. That’s going to be more than £30 and if it’s not, you need a new job matey.
Ultimately, I suppose I’ll end up paying the £30 (hopefully before it doubles) but it has made me feel bound up by bureaucracy. I’m not especially political yet I find myself being constantly affected by this rather wanky administration. It’s like being continuously pinched by an ugly person; at some point you’ll pinch ‘em back and quite bloody hard too.
I also ended up missing my day in the woods which, by some vile twist of fate, looks like it was the sunny Thursday of 2007. Hopefully next week I shall have something more woody and wholesome to write about.
Darling Heart – mad mad mad. And I mean that in the English sense not the American (although that would be quite justifiable too). Methinks your local plod doesn’t have enough to do. Suggest you liven up the night shift in some manner. Wild party? Illegal fireworks? Nudity? Something worth the thirty quid at least. Another suggestion for your consideration – henceforth allow the 6 year old to fill the tank. Also, send strongly worded letters anyway.
Much love and sympathy, (ha ha I’ve never done that touch wood) your Sis xxx
sympathy can be found between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.