The Three Ps

I’ve got another car story to tell you. It’s been a while since little Polly Polo has featured in a post and despite the fact that my recently acquired job entitles me to add some stories to the slightly neglected ‘My own little Hogwarts’, I feel a brief interlude is essential. Prepare to laugh; I openly allow you to and perhaps some of my dignity can be restored in writing a jolly entertaining tale.

The time is 6:30 pm; the day is the 21^st October and it is my 20th consecutive day of school whereby I am neither student nor teacher yet simultaneously required to be both. I have just driven several hours (the exact quantity is irrespective, I mean only to inform you that I have been driving, in the evening, for some time). I step out of the car and stretch; my Satnav (yet to be Christened although I’m leaning towards ‘Dr Chase’ as he shares a certain sexy Aussy drawl) has acted supremely and I am in fact, where I fully intend to be.

Walking around the side of Polly, I scrutinise the bodywork and the suspicious scratch that stretches the length of the car. “Yes. It’s still there. Definitely not my fault though.” I have a guilty face, I can tell, although I’m not sure why. I certainly didn’t key my car.  Anyway, digressing from the main story. 

I check my parking and am pleasantly surprised at my ‘equidistancing’ so I head towards yet another school building. I have substituted one for another and am visiting none other than my best friend who is also neither teacher nor student but simultaneously both and like me, lives in a junior school boarding house.  We hug and marvel at my parking before hugging again and marvelling at my parking some more as we head inside.  Jo is in her pyjamas; either she has only just got up, or she is planning to stand me up and get a sensationally early night. Possibly, it is option three, in which any student or ex-student can acceptably wear pyjamas no matter the time or the company.  I recognise it straight away as that warmly familiar, generic ‘slobbing attire’.  “Excellent”, I think. “That means we’re having an evening in.”

With tea in hand, we can barely word our way through even the most customary of conversation, (this doesn’t reflect badly on our friendship – we had a long chitchat the evening before on the phone), talking and answering with yawns in something that sounds a lot like ‘Whale’ (ref ‘Finding Nemo’).  I’m not entirely sure who suggests ordering our staple Dominos pizza, but it is the only realistic outcome for the evening and with surprising haste, we ascertain that we need both cash and PETROL (read back and laugh later).

I drive as it is Polly who is thirsty for fuel and besides, I can then show Jo the scratch and tell her how much “It wasn’t me!” En route, our conversation goes something like this.

Georgie: Let’s get money.

Jo: Yes, let’s get money. Good idea. Then we can get pizza. And eat. I’m hungry.

Georgie: I need petrol too. I hate getting petrol. I get confused. I forget if it’s petrol or diesel.

Jo: I know what you mean. I hate it too.

Georgie: But it’s ok. I have this totally fool-proof way of remembering.

Jo: Oh really? That’s useful. Tell me so I can use it too.

Georgie: Well. I say out loud “Polly, Polo, Petrol”. See, it has three P’s.

Jo: Wow! That IS easy.

Georgie: So I never forget.

Now I feel I could leave the story there and leave you to come to your own hurtful conclusions about my ‘Malteaser’ personality traits (for those who don’t know, my Daddy dearest sometimes refers to me as a ‘Malteaser’; I might be brown on the outside, but apparently I’m blond in the middle). However, since I’ve started the story, I’ll go on.

Needless to say, in goes the diesel. A total of 6 litres of it. But alas, that’s 6 litres too many for a new little Polo like Polly and even as I snatch the nozzle out, I know the damage is done. My heart sinks. I feel dizzy (and that’s not from the fumes, although they do normally make me feel a bit nauseous). My mouth is dry but I manage to choke out the words to Jo: “Diesel… in petrol… six… diesel… Mum… kill me”.  Jo – ever the cool cucumber. Me – not so much.  I tell her I have to call home although I know it will be the conversation of nightmares, much like the one I had to have in Russia where I ran up a bill of £700 calling England. So much for all those ‘From Russia with Love’ phone calls. I know this one will be worse, although some hope remains in the fact that I haven’t at this point switched the engine on or even put the key into the ignition. Thank goodness. I must have one brain cell in there somewhere.  The phone call is unpleasant. And for some reason, my ears tune in to what Jo is saying in the background: “Send your Mum my love”. Ever the wordsmith.

Together we shuffle our way into the petrol station, giggling inexplicably as people sometimes do in serious situations. The two attendants, currently serving other customers, eye us suspiciously. They must think we are stealing petrol. Or diesel.  I mumble that I’ve put diesel in petrol or petrol in diesel and now it won’t go and glancing outside, he asks if we are parked at pump 10, adding that it has been stationary for some time.  Jo whispers that they definitely thought we were trying to steal petrol. Or diesel. The man doesn’t hear and asks if we have a number to call.  I tell him yes and we leave, hastily.

Sitting self-consciously in the very stationary car at pump 10, we call Aviva breakdown who inform me that I’m not actually included on the breakdown policy; that privilege lies exclusively with my parents. Apparently, that small matter is irrelevant though as the cost of sucking out the offending petrol or diesel is a fairly standard £179, excluding VAT. Also, they would have to tow poor little Polly all the way to ‘Upper Riffington’ (I ask the man to repeat this three times before getting him to spell the words out to me Alpha, Bravo, Charlie style), then fix her up while I wait and then they would expect me to drive myself back. Now Upper Riffington (I can’t say this place without sounding resentful – it’s a great word for taking your fury out on) is apparently 45 minutes from Cheltenham, so once they get to us (in 45 minutes or so), drive to flipping Riffington (in 45 minutes or so), fix the problem (in 45 minutes or so) and I drive myself back (in 45 minutes or so), the nightmare might finally be allowed to end. Also, as an afterthought; is 45 the only number these people know??

I am unhappy with this solution, with the additional insult of having to pay some heinous amount of money, so I call back home and am presented with an alternative from my heroic Uncle who has found a company on Google who will sort out all my problems on the garage forecourt.  Fantastic. Jo and I almost jump for joy. (Jo has meanwhile told me that of course she will come to Flipping Riffington with me and in return she will tell everyone on my wedding day about this amusing little incident.)

With our problems almost solved, Jo drags me into a nearby pub (still in her pyjamas and by now, slightly conscious of being so) and persuades me to substitute Dominos for burgers and chips (or risotto in our case). Although the chap is late in arriving, it works to our advantage as we have time to order and eat our food while Polly waits patiently in the garage. The ‘magic-fixing-hero-car-man’ high-fives me as he leaps out of his van. I like him already. He gets me to steer while he pushes the engine-dead car to the side of the forecourt and then entertains us with stories of becoming a stand up comedian called ‘MFI’ (M*F* Indian). He scares me with prices and watches as my expression turns to horror.  Jo sits in the car accepting fully the abuse she gets about being in pyjamas on a Saturday night but has the sense to ask him to clarify on the costings.  The nice man then gives me a discount, which takes the price down from £290 to £210 – in cash if you please.

He leaves; I still feel sick; Polly doesn’t die when I turn the ignition; we watch some Downtown Abbey and eat Gu and drink some wine.