Trouble.
“There’s a light on in the car.”
“What sort of light?
“On the dashboard thingy.”
“Describe it.”
“Well it’s just a light.”
“What colour is it?”
“Do you remember those curtains we used to have in the spare bedroom? A sort of burnt orange?”
Is she joking? Probably not. “When this light came on, was there a pinging sound?”
“Er...I think so.”
“You need to put some petrol in.”
“How do you do that?”
It must be at least twenty years since I taught The Trouble how to drive - after insisting of course that she first had ten lessons from a qualified instructor - I’m a supportive husband, not a fool. One day when she was reasonably proficient, i.e. when people had taken to the streets again and she had mastered the nine point turn - I asked her to take the next turn on the left and pull up. She did. She looked around her and said, non-plussed, “We’re in a garage.”
I corrected her. “A filling station.”
“Why?”
“Your next lesson. It’s called ‘Going for Petrol’.”
I had her get out of the car and showed her how to unlock the petrol cap and use the petrol pump. I stopped when I’d put in a couple of gallons. Then I had her do the same, going through the complete routine. Three times. Satisfied that she now knew how to put petrol in the car I took her to the kiosk to show her how to pay for it. Sorted. Or so I imagined.
From that day to this I don’t think she’s put petrol in our car more than half-a-dozen times, and not at all in our present car, which we’ve had for about eighteen months. Which had prompted her question as to how to go about putting petrol in it. On more than one occasion I’ve seen her get in the car, switch on, notice that the needle on the fuel gauge was getting dangerously near to the red zone, and get out and either walk or take a bus to where she was going. This time she must have failed to take that precaution.
The tone of my voice was deliberately long-suffering so as to register my disapproval. Water off a duck’s back I know, but you have to make an effort. “Go to the nearest garage.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where are you now?” She told me. “Make for Tesco’s.”
“Do they sell petrol?” There was real surprise in her voice. “I’ve never noticed when I’ve been there shopping.”
“It’s not on the shelves next to the cereals and tins of soup, it’s at a separate building with a giant sign on it that says ‘Petrol’ - you’ll see about eight things outside it that look like one-armed monsters out of Doctor Who; they’re called petrol pumps.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“There is every need to be sarcastic.”
She arrived home about an hour later, not a happy bunny. “I didn’t know it cost as much as that,” she complained.
“Well why would you?”
“Ninety eight pence a litre!”
“Right. How much did you put in?”
“Well a litre of course. Oh by the way, that light came on againon the way home.”
****
November 17 2007. MISTEAK .
You could urn up to £20 an hour working form home after a Chapterhouse proofreeding and editing coarse.
Co-respondence courses and seminars. Fifteen ears of publishing training. Exerpt personal tutors.Advice on getting wok
Mark he errors nad send this ad to us with your name and a dress and we’ll send you our free prospectus. If your two bussy a phone call will do. 0800 3328 8396
www.chapterhousepublishing.com , 16 Magdalen Road, Exeter, EX2 45Y
I marked the errors ‘MISTEAK’, ‘cuold’, ‘urn’, ‘form’, ‘ears’, ‘exerpt’, ‘he’, ‘a dress’, ‘your’ and ‘bussy’. I missed the spelling mistakes ‘coarse, ‘nad’, ‘proofreeding’ and ‘Co-respondence’. I also marked as errors the correctly spelled words ‘publishing’ and ‘prospectus’. I sent the ad off to Chapterhouse and a few days later I received their reply, which I reprint below.
Save up to
“There’s a light on in the car.”
“What sort of light?
“On the dashboard thingy.”
“Describe it.”
“Well it’s just a light.”
“What colour is it?”
“Do you remember those curtains we used to have in the spare bedroom? A sort of burnt orange?”
Is she joking? Probably not. “When this light came on, was there a pinging sound?”
“Er...I think so.”
“You need to put some petrol in.”
“How do you do that?”
It must be at least twenty years since I taught The Trouble how to drive - after insisting of course that she first had ten lessons from a qualified instructor - I’m a supportive husband, not a fool. One day when she was reasonably proficient, i.e. when people had taken to the streets again and she had mastered the nine point turn - I asked her to take the next turn on the left and pull up. She did. She looked around her and said, non-plussed, “We’re in a garage.”
I corrected her. “A filling station.”
“Why?”
“Your next lesson. It’s called ‘Going for Petrol’.”
I had her get out of the car and showed her how to unlock the petrol cap and use the petrol pump. I stopped when I’d put in a couple of gallons. Then I had her do the same, going through the complete routine. Three times. Satisfied that she now knew how to put petrol in the car I took her to the kiosk to show her how to pay for it. Sorted. Or so I imagined.
From that day to this I don’t think she’s put petrol in our car more than half-a-dozen times, and not at all in our present car, which we’ve had for about eighteen months. Which had prompted her question as to how to go about putting petrol in it. On more than one occasion I’ve seen her get in the car, switch on, notice that the needle on the fuel gauge was getting dangerously near to the red zone, and get out and either walk or take a bus to where she was going. This time she must have failed to take that precaution.
The tone of my voice was deliberately long-suffering so as to register my disapproval. Water off a duck’s back I know, but you have to make an effort. “Go to the nearest garage.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where are you now?” She told me. “Make for Tesco’s.”
“Do they sell petrol?” There was real surprise in her voice. “I’ve never noticed when I’ve been there shopping.”
“It’s not on the shelves next to the cereals and tins of soup, it’s at a separate building with a giant sign on it that says ‘Petrol’ - you’ll see about eight things outside it that look like one-armed monsters out of Doctor Who; they’re called petrol pumps.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“There is every need to be sarcastic.”
She arrived home about an hour later, not a happy bunny. “I didn’t know it cost as much as that,” she complained.
“Well why would you?”
“Ninety eight pence a litre!”
“Right. How much did you put in?”
“Well a litre of course. Oh by the way, that light came on againon the way home.”
****
November 17 2007. MISTEAK .
You could urn up to £20 an hour working form home after a Chapterhouse proofreeding and editing coarse.
Co-respondence courses and seminars. Fifteen ears of publishing training. Exerpt personal tutors.Advice on getting wok
Mark he errors nad send this ad to us with your name and a dress and we’ll send you our free prospectus. If your two bussy a phone call will do. 0800 3328 8396
www.chapterhousepublishing.com , 16 Magdalen Road, Exeter, EX2 45Y
I marked the errors ‘MISTEAK’, ‘cuold’, ‘urn’, ‘form’, ‘ears’, ‘exerpt’, ‘he’, ‘a dress’, ‘your’ and ‘bussy’. I missed the spelling mistakes ‘coarse, ‘nad’, ‘proofreeding’ and ‘Co-respondence’. I also marked as errors the correctly spelled words ‘publishing’ and ‘prospectus’. I sent the ad off to Chapterhouse and a few days later I received their reply, which I reprint below.
Save up to
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