If Joe Hockey thought being forced to say ‘Sorry’ to an irate motoring public was stressful, he should have seen my reaction to the news that our old car had broken down.
As the tow truck sped off, Long Suffering Wife guided my stumbling footsteps back into the house, as I babbled the words, “Faithful, reliable, dependable,” over and over.
Breaking from her grip, I rushed back to the footpath, “Wait! Come back! I’ve just filled the tank!” But it was too late.
Fortunately we own two cars. And like most modern families, we spend a lot of time driving them under our yo-yo-ing garage door as we attempt to get everyone to their various sporting, hobby, school, and work appointments.
Now, the odds of getting Long Suffering Wife to ride a pushbike are about the same as my (and Joe’s) chances of becoming PM, so the next day as she drove to work, I dragged my trusty pushbike, Pubtruck, out of the shed and pedalled off to see our mechanic.
Eventually I wobbled into his workshop, red of face and busted of lung. Through the ringing in my ears I heard the words, “Old car… had its’ day… best for all.” I held up a hand and croaked, “Fix it. For the love of God… Fix It!”
The mechanic agreed to have another look, while I pedalled homeward. Fortunately I didn’t have far to go, but Gladstone’s many hills had me working harder than Quasimodo’s chiropractor.
We survived by juggling the use of our remaining car and Pubtruck. It wasn’t too bad, but I was delighted when our old car was finally fixed, and slung Pubtruck back into the shed.
Ironically, the repairs cost about as much as a new pushbike, or a years’ increase in fuel tax, but unlike Joe, I’m not complaining.