About half-way down the M40 (a mile after junction 9 to be precise) the lemon that is his car did its usual and broke down. Imagine the scene if you will, rain coming down like stair-rods and very poor visibility therefore, the car pootling along in the outside lane at c90 and all the electics die. No windscreen wipers, so no visibility; no lights, so essentially invisible to anyone coming up behind; no engine, so slowing down fast (see previous entry; and no indicators or hazard lights. A somewhat hairy few moments later and, being honest, thanks to some blind luck he made it to the hard shoulder.
As things stood therefore the AA had about an hour to get to him, drop the car at a garage and put him in a taxi if he was to make his flight.
A window that despite the best efforts of various individuals at the AA they managed not quite to fit through. Thanks to the interfering busy-bodies at the Highways Agency they had first of all to send a local sub-contractor to drag him off the motorway to Oxford services who was, not to put too fine a point on it, a miserable curmudgeon (and our subject should be able to recognise one of them) who’s problem solving skills were, shall we say, weak.
It then took another 2 ½ hours to get an actual AA mechanic to him who was a lovely chap (although alarmingly young, is it just your editorial team that thinks AA men are looking as young as policemen nowadays?) and quickly confirmed the diagnosis made by our motoring correspondent in the outside lane 4 hours before that the alternator was “buggered” and he needed a tow.
Having rapidly upgraded to obtain said tow he was overjoyed to receive the next call from the AA at c1530 which went something like, “good news Mr Williams we have located a flat-bed lorry and he is on his way to you and should be with you shortly, between 1700 and 1730”; “I’m sorry I could have sworn you just suggested that shortly was 2 hours”; “errr well it is the quickest we can get there”; “well that may be true but it is not bloody shortly in my book, is it honestly so in your book?”; “errr”; “harrumph.”
It actually turned up at 1745 only 7 hours after he originally called him.
A night at his mother’s and an early morning flight from BA, at vast expense, to Geneva is the fix so far although how is to get from Geneva to Val Thorens is a mystery at present. Meanwhile Gay George (Not Actually Gay) is already there trying not to look like a sad loser drinking on his own.
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