Our car developed a set of alarming eccentricities this week which have finally resulted in my taking it to the vet - I mean garage - this morning.
First, it ate a CD. Sondheim's "Assassins". Would not give it back. Nope. Sullenly and absolutely refused to disgorge it.
Then the radio started changing channels for no obvious reason. Half way through someone burbling about Mozart we'd get a swift blast of travel update from somewhere else entirely. Most odd.
Then it decided not to start at all. This naturally happened on piano lesson day, which meant a whole set of phone calls to explain why son and I would not be joining piano teacher in the middle of nowhere. That was easy though - I called out the AA. We pay the membership, it is their job to come and tell me I've done something daft and put it right.
They came. They started the car. They stopped starting the car because it began to make noises like a cat about to spit a hairball. They prodded the car. They started the car again and of course it worked perfectly.
However, that very evening, as Mr Rev was about to head out to his rehearsal, it flashed a set of previously unknown lights at us. Scanning through the manual, we identified said light as the indicator telling us that the anti-skid system wasn't working. Since it was tipping down and very slippery it seemed a bad plan to drive it.
This is where we were this morning, when I took it (carefully) to the garage and relayed my tale of woe. Late this afternoon they rang back. "It's your heating system." "Oh, OK." "It will need a part. I've ordered it." "Great." "Should be here tomorrow." "When? I need to get up the Dale tomorrow and we're driving to Edinburgh tomorrow night." "We'll do our best."
"We'll do our best" often means "forget it" in mechanic speak.
Really quite frustrated now. I've got a wedding cake to deliver. In Edinburgh.