Narrow squeak

When the Minx and I got back from Laxton on Friday, I drove up to Kirkby Lonsdale, did some work, and then drove back down to Salford in Dan's car so that he could drive us home, this morning.

I won't say he was looking forward to it - I don't think he's reached the point where he enjoys driving yet - but he did really well. Obviously we couldn't go on the motorway but we took the A6 all the way up through Chorley - with its challenging string of roundabouts - and Preston.

Dan had announced that the was getting hungry as we passed through Clayton-le-Woods and so I consulted the Minx who suggested the Black Bull in Fullwood. When the time came, Dan dutifully turned off the A6 but missed the entrance to the pub's car park. That's OK, I told him, take the next right and we'll find somewhere to turn 'round.

Which is precisely what he did and we manoeuvred our way around a housing estate to find somewhere to turn the car. We were at a junction and Dan went to pull away when the gearbox made a horrendous noise, like the car wasn't quite in gear but ten times worse!

I told him to try it again but the same thing happened so we swapped seats. It was no good; I could get the car into gear no problem but as soon as I raised the clutch, all sonic hell broke loose.

After a couple of quick phone calls to assess our options, I arranged for the guy who sold us the car to pick it up and sort it out, which just left Dan and I to wait for the Minx who kindly offered to rescue us. Dan was his usual relaxed self and fetched us a couple of coffees from a nearby Costa to enjoy while we waited.

It was only later, once we were safely home, that it occurred to me how fortunate we had been that whatever component it was that broke decided to do so when we were practically stationary with no other cars around.

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No scales
Reading: 'The Vanishing Half' by Brit Bennett