Transport Dilemma

Bugger. My car has broken down.

For years it has been problem free, now I try to start it and it wheezes hopefully but then … nowt.

I think it’s the battery and have been trying to get a man out to fix it. Of course, that’s never as simple as it sounds. Straight men being straight men, they are obliged to make a drama out of a crisis. There’s lots of sucking in of air and talk of diagnostics and computer checks. All this at £40 call out and £40 per half hour, thank you very much indeed.

I have been called a girly spazz by Toby for not wanting to change the damn thing myself. He has a point, of course. In the past I have done, when I had a nice garage to hide in and could do the job in secret. You see, straight men being straight men, they can’t bear to walk past a woman doing something they consider to be “their turf.” “You shouldn’t be doing that”, they yell. Why? Because I have tits?! They tell you you’re doing it all wrong, gawp for a minute then walk away shaking their heads. Tossers.

At the same time I have been thinking of buying a bike. A push bike, you understand, not a motorised one. I can picture myself charging through Crystal Palace with thighs of steel and a crap helmet on my head. But where do you put your weekly shop on a bike? To say nothing of a 6 kilo bag of kitty litter.

So I’ve been out to buy a spanner. Better make sure I can get the old battery out before I buy a new one. The dyke community will be proud of me. Unless I fuck it up, of course.