Recently, my family, my dad in particular, has been having quite a bit of trouble with cars. As of yesterday, we have just given back car number 6 – in 3 months. This stems, at least in part, from the incident about 3 months ago, when a drunk driver crashed into our car when it was parked outside our house … but for the past year or so, whenever my dad drives more than about 50 miles, we brake down. Normally, this is incredibly frustrating – I think our use of trains has increased 3-fold since this started happening, but looking back on it, these events can be somewhat hilarious.
Thursday morning, we were in the car (number 5, the replacement my dad brought after ours got totaled) driving to Warwick castle for a day out. We stopped at the services, because my brother, as always, needed the bathroom (don’t drive with small children), and then the car wouldn’t start again. Dad called the RAC (breakdown people) and mum brought us muffins, and eventually, after me and my little sister mentioned how something like this was bound to happen, they fixed the car, saying that something had moved so the batteries weren’t charging, which was why it wouldn’t start, and we carried on.
I had a nice day, watching people stab each other remarkably unrealistically, and drooling over waxwork food for waxwork Victorian ladies. We started driving home, and half way down the motorway (I think you call them interstates, huge multi-lane things), we went over a bump. This shouldn’t mean anything, because roads are never flat, if they were, the government would have no reason to dig them up all the time. However, this bump meant something. All the lights cut out – and motorways are incredibly dark places at 7 in the evening. There was a lorry right behind us, a lorry to the side of us, and little me is sat in the in the back seat, terrified. I genuinely believed I was going to die.
Because pulling over in front of a giant lorry into somewhere you can’t see when you have no lights is a really bad idea, my dad decided to drive onto the service station. Thankfully, it was only two miles away, but those were the longest 2 miles of my life. When we did finally get to the services, it was the same one we’d stopped at that morning, and we parked (at the opposite end) of the same lay-by. Talk about time repeating itself.
A tow truck was supposed to turn up to take us home, but instead two men with a van came to give us a hire car and tow our car away. My little sister decided to flirt with the younger one, making everything awkward, because he was probably the same age as me. They took our car, and we got in the hire car (which was a tiny 2003 Renault, containing a keyring belonging to someone called Colin). It was a really strange car, because the ceiling was so low in the corners/sides. We drove home in it, but my head hit the ceiling every time we when around a corner – quite an achievement for someone whose’s only 5′ 3″. 55 miles later, we come off the motorway, and I probably had concussion, as shown when my parents asked me for directions and my response was “Turn yellow. No, I mean left” *points straight ahead*
I’m fine now though … I slept off the concussion, but it’s not an experience I’d recommend.