I was driving through central London at the weekend with a rip-roaring hangover when I noticed people were staring at me because there was a mysterious ticking noise under my bonnet. I pulled over in Bermondsey and got covered in an unholy amount of oil before discovering that my fan belt had split and was causing the noise. This was the result of a leak in my power steering fluid.
Naturally, I panicked and called my dad. He decided to berate my hungover ass for not having breakdown cover and then took me through my viable options. It turned out that I was fucked.
I eventually managed to get the car pushed into a nearby garage (which was closed because it was the day of rest) and left it there, calling the garage and leaving a voicemail for them to pick up first thing Monday morning.
I then had to get the train home, still covered in oil, still hungover to goddamn sin.
This isn’t a blog about breaking down. It isn’t even a post about being hangover. God knows I’ve written enough of those over the years.
Instead this is a celebration of the people you immediately turn to when you don’t know what else to do.
I knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything practical. I wasn’t expecting him to drive up and save me. What he did do was invite me over for dinner and give me a cuddle that let me know that writing off any car passes. Hangovers pass. Love doesn’t.