DAMSEL in distress – that was me. It was a real, proper, genuine damsel in distress moment, too, not like the usual scrapes I get myself into.
You know, the ones whereby I could conceivable solve the problem myself, were it not for my constant need for attention.
This particular incident, however, was beyond my control. It involved a car you see, and not just any car: my car, Claude the Clio.
I’m not one of those women who pretend to have any interest in things which are seen as “typically male”.
I really don’t care for cars or their inner workings. I don’t know how to change a tyre, nor do I ever want to. I just don’t care. All I require from a vehicle is that it moves when I put the key in the ignition.
Unfortunately, my firm stance on car ignorance backfired (as so many things in my life do).
There I was, on the motorway heading towards my beloved Cork when Claude, the bastard, decides he has had enough. He shudders and all but loses power.
“Oooops,” I think. “This is awkward. How am I to get out of this particular situation?”
Red lights are flashing on the dashboard like they are going out of fashion.
Claude keeps shuddering and, even if I do say so myself, is acting like a massive drama queen.
“This is unacceptable, Claude, totally unacceptable behaviour,” I scold. “You are so selfish.”
At this juncture my mother rings and I inform her of my predicament.
“The car is going to blow up and you are doing to die,” she says … or something along those lines.
I turn Claude on again just to see if he is going to blow up and, surprisingly, he doesn’t.
I take that as a sign that he is perfectly fine, so I attempt to get him back off the hard-shoulder onto the motorway. Unfortunately, he refuses to travel at speeds greater than 50kph and the red lights persistently flash.
At this juncture I am beginning to think something is wrong. I contact the person who is lucky enough to go out with me.
“What is flashing?,” he asks.
“It’s a symbol,” I tell him. “It’s red, it’s like … er … it’s like a thing, actually it’s really indescribable, I couldn’t even begin to describe it.”
“Check the manual,” he says.
“I have a manual?”
Upon discovering the manual and relaying that information to himself, I realise that really, I should call the AA.
This in itself was a major operation. Firstly, I recall that I should step out of Claude, just in case someone decides to ram into the back of my car, thereby killing me.
I understand that standing on the side of the motorway will be humiliating but I value my life.
Surely, I think, surely some nice kind person will see me, clearly distressed, on the side of the motorway, and will stop to help.
Surely this will happen? Ah … no.
I’ve lost all faith in mankind. They were most unhelpful. Sure, they tooted their horns and screamed out the window; almost everyone stared but no-one, not even one person, stopped to help. Bastards.
An hour! I was on the side of the motorway for an hour! Freezing cold, starving, miserable AND my dress kept blowing in the window. There was a lot for me to worry about so I kicked Claude in the wheel as punishment.
Yes, yes, eventually the AA man came, as did my significant other to collect me. Claude was taken away to car hospital, but really, I was far more traumatised than him.
What I’ve taken from this whole scenario is (a) people are **** ***** ****; (b) Claude is a **** *** ****; and (c) I shall never wear a dress while driving again.