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It has been said - though never by me - that a woman's place is in the home.
This is a sentiment that provokes hot reaction from my sisters' who proclaim that women can do (almost) anything a man can, and usually can do it better, neater, faster. I work in an office with two men at the helm and must admit that the notion of substituting women is appealing. However, even the most die hard feminist will admit (I hope) that there are limitations to the wonder-woman's abilities. For a start there are basic biological functions that are exclusive to each sex and in most of these women seem to have the fuzzy end of the lollipop. Having just had a twangingly painful ovulation, this is something of a sore point. Men are also able to drink more, talk for longer about sport, understand cricket and, crucially, change car tyres.
I have always been something of a tom-boy and I actually take an interest in the workings of my vehicle. Whilst I don't really know a great deal, I am able to summon up an interested expression when the conversation turns to pistons and valves. I know enough to nod wisely and am aware that to a car mechanic a wishbone is not necessarily part of a chicken. All this notwithstanding it was with a sick feeling that I realised that my car had suffered a blow out in a rear tyre.
Driving home from work I was listening to middle of the road music that I hope will calm my somewhat belligerant driving style down. Usually Melody FM is enough to make the most insomniacally inclined go into a coma but for me it just takes the edge off. I have always driven in London and my suspicion is that the Death Race 2000, that is the A406, North Circular Road is not an evironment likely to encourage sedate driving practices. Suddenly my cosy car world was, well - punctured; even over John Denver I could hear the bang and hiss of a tyre going down. "Oh Bugger!"
In a spirit of mindless optimism I drove on a little way but reality was not to be driven away from and I chugged ignominiously into a bus stop and hove to. "Oh Bugger, Bugger! Suddenly, John Denver became a focus of my fear and desperation. 'Country roads take me home...' - SHUT UP!"
I knew enough to open the boot and look for the jack. However, I really don't know how to work it and there seemed to be a piece of it for which I could find no purpose. Fear and trepadation not withstanding I set about my task.
I was in the process of happily bouncing my full ( and substantial) weight up down on the thingy you use to undo the bolts when a car pulled in behind. The relief of Ladysmith was as nothing to the relief of this lady seeing a young man get out and come over. Suddenly all my notions of being a modern woman dissolved and I came over all sort of ...girlie.
My saviour was a man of few words which was just as well since he was Hungarian and I had trouble understanding the odd syllable that did slip out. He was masterful, manly and what's more he was a mechanic. Advertising executives may earn more money but when it comes down to it they are pretty sodding useless. I watched as he hauled out his own two tonne trolley jack and with an expression of distain cast aside the weird looking contraption that I had been puzzling over.
"These are rubbish!" he announced. I nodded vigorously.
We all know that clean underwear is somewhat important, just in case a number 39 mowed us down, but I had never thought along the same lines about my car boot when a helpful stranger is changing a tyre. I am an inveterate picker up of odd things and when they are particularly odd they get stored in the car boot. Everything including (literally) the kitchen sink is in there and I must confess to a certain amount of chagrin as the contenets of my boot were discharged all over the pavement. Sink, Steering rack, box full of oddments et al.
Once the spare was excavated I was gripped with a new fear and set about fervently praying to the God of tyres to let it be in working order, promisingly ardently to always check the pressure in future. Wonders of wonders it was inflated and I was elated.
In a trice, while I was still wiggling the sink along the pavement trying to make it look less conspicuous, the change had taken place. The wonderous Hungarian finished up, reloaded all the junk into my boot and lookd for all the world like he was going to hop back into his car and disappear into the sunset without a word.
"Thank you for stopping," I gushed sincerely. He looked up at the long line of red tail lights crawling down the A41.
"They are bastards, they would not stop, I hate this country." Conversation at last. "Yes. Well. Thank you. Can I give you something for your trouble?" He thought for a moment and unsimilingly asked if I smoked. Thank goodness - a smoker. I rushed headlong for the pack of 20 now reduced to a squished two and offered it to him. My own nerves had started to jangle so I had the last cigarette and we stood together by the car puffing away and watching the inexorable crawl of traffic go past. I felt suddenly very relaxed and curiously apart from the line of cars that moved with a single will like a snake with tousands of little demonic red eyes.. I had survived. I had been rescued, my priorities had changed.
The cigarette finished he turned to go and then suddenly asked my name, I told him, he nodded and then added "my name is Gabriel." Apotheosis on the A41.
He quickly left and I followed, feeling calmer and altoghether more, erm, Christian about the other road users. I hope it lasts. I'm sick of listening to Melody FM.
