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Tiny and the Breakdown Recovery Blokie who likes Dirty Talking Women…

tow truck with car

Image via Wikipedia

Are we sitting comfortably, children?

Then I’ll begin today’s story…

Once Upon a Time there was a princess sitting with her ex, in his car, in front of a dilapidated old banger, waiting for a nice man from breakdown to come and sort out her bleedin’ car.

And so, they waited. And waited. And waited.

And had a massive slanging match with some posh cow who wanted both cars gone so that she could park outside her mansion. Poor love! It wasn’t her fault; she was obviously stressed and couldn’t help getting teasy. Having your head stuck so far up your own arse would do that to a person.

Eventually, the ex spotted the breakdown truck  in his rearview mirror.

‘Quick! Get out! Wave at him! Flag him down before he drives past!’ he cried, pushing the princess out of the passenger door onto a grassy verge.

She muttered a sweary word, but bravely leapt out into the traffic, waving her arms and yelling, ‘Cooo-eee! Over ‘ere, love!’

There was a screech of brakes as the traffic zigzagged to a standstill. And in the middle of this chaos, our heroine made a gurgled noise. The driver of the ‘breakdown truck’ shouted and made a very rude sign with his middle finger before crunching gears and hurtling off. It was a Cornwall Council worker trying to get home for his tea…

Oops!

Our knight in oil-stained overalls eventually arrived and the princess, still embarrassed, crept out of her ex’s car. A nosy van driver was too busy watching the action to notice the car in front was stationary. He screamed to a stop, narrowly avoiding a pile-up.

Our heroine heard the squeal of brakes just behind her and leapt into the air, absolutely certain she was about to be crushed. Again.

‘Oh flippin’ hell – that made me jump!’ she cried.

Except, of course, it was the other ‘f’ word…

The breakdown blokie looked bemused but said nothing. Instead he stuck his head under the bonnet and began ‘fiddling’ with ‘things’. Yep, that’s as technical as it gets, I’m afraid.

‘Well, oim not sure what’s wrong, moi luverr,’  he announced, after having a jolly good fiddle. ‘She’ll ‘ave to go to a garage. See, you’ve got no pulse and your coil’s gone rusty.’

‘Bloody good job it’s you saying that and not my doctor,’ the princess quipped.

And so, after an arduous, bumpy journey along the lanes of Cornwall with a creaky old rust bucket on the back, they arrived at the garage.

‘You’ll ‘ave to sit in, moi luvver, while I take ‘er down off the ramp.’

If you’re very perceptive, you will have realised that our heroine is a big wimp. Even though she knew the car would move, she wasn’t really expecting actual movement, so when it happened, she panicked, and tried to scramble out of the door. Six feet above the ground. On a ramp. On a breakdown lorry.

And of course, she swore. Again. Loudly.

Once our pantomime car was off the ramp, it needed pushing into the garage.

‘You steer,’ said the ex, ‘and we’ll push.’

‘Oh please let me push! I don’t want to steer! God knows where we’ll end up if I’m left to steer!’

‘Just steer,’ said the ex through gritted teeth. ‘Cover. The. Brake. And. Steer.’

Sounds simple, huh?

Except the bleedin’ steering locked up again and three beefy blokes were now pushing our heroine – smack bang towards a chuffin’ great big brick wall!

She slammed on the brakes. Three male heads butted the rear window. Someone swore.

‘What are you doing, Tiny? the ex yelled.

Losing it big style!

‘The flippin’ steering’s flipping locked again! If I come off the flippin’ brake, we’ll end in the flippin’ wall!’ Our heroine yelled back.

‘Oo-er,’ said a Cornish voice. ‘Oi jus’ love it when a woman talks dirty!’          😉

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Arrrgggghhhhh!

edvard munch - the scream  1893

I have had:

  • No internet for a week!
  • No car for ten days!
  • No hot men. Ever! 

Argghh!

And you wouldn’t believe the performance I had with the car. Last week Eldest son broke it! Honestly! And in an alleyway so narrow, the breakdown truck couldn’t recover it!

Actually that’s a lie. The knob driving the breakdown truck just couldn’t be arsed to recover it. I think he was scared of scuffing his knuckles or breaking a fingernail.

Well, that’s okay,’ said my ex. ‘We’ll just go down and tow it back’.

 Yeah, right.

I have never been so scared in my life – me in the driving seat of a car being towed through narrow alleyways, parked vehicles on my left, ex-husband in front, and kamikaze drivers trying to squeeze through on the right.

It was piddling with rain, the wipers were staging a go-slow and the bastard engine seized up.  I had no steering and no brakes. I was a Tiny ball in a pinball machine, veering from right to left, picking-up speed and careering closer and closer to my ex-husband’s back bumper.

‘Stop!’ I’ yelled. ‘For God’s sake, STOP!’

But, of course, he couldn’t hear me because he was in another car. With all the windows shut.

We Carried on Careering.

So I started waving. Frantically.

Pleeeeeaaaseee…stop the bloody car…I have no control…STOPPPPPPP!’

But, of course, he couldn’t see me because he was facing forwards, negotiating our Grand Prix-style Cornish hairpin bends.

Eventually we stopped. I don’t know how. By then I think I’d fainted.

‘God, what’s that awful smell?’ he said.

Me,’ I whimpered. ‘I just pooed myself.’

Well, the great thing about ex-spouses is that they know you really well. So they’re never surprised when suddenly, you morph into a screaming banshee, shaking and swearing in a thin, hysterical high-pitched squeal.

In my defence, I was terrified. And I apologised later. When my heartbeat finally came off the critical list.

We found a space at the side of a wide road, dumped my car and drove home.

After a short argument with the breakdown company, they agreed to come out again.

And that story shall be called ‘Tiny and the Breakdown Recovery Blokie who Likes a Woman Talking Dirty’.

I love my life…

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