Starter motors and Shangri-La 18/01/03
Do you know what a clutch release bearing is? I don’t either – but I imagine it as being small and spherical, somewhere between a cherry tomato and a Brussels sprout, though probably made of metal. This teensy widget has an impact quite disproportionate to its dimensions. It has, for example, forced a certain Mr Weasel to extend his post-Christmas break in a North Yorkshire village by an extra eight days. Last week, I revealed how my clutch release bearing went pfft! before New Year’s Eve and how I called out the AA, which in turn broke down, prompting the AA to call out the AA.
Despite the street being filled with an impressive number of yellow AA vehicles, the Weaselmobile did not move an inch. This situation did not change for the next week, during which time Mrs W departed for London. When everyone woke up after the New Year, the AA lugged my ailing 4×4 to a specialist repairer in Hull that the patrolman recommended. Later that day, I rang this whizzo outfit hoping for good news. “Won’t be today, sir,” declared the mechanical genius at the other end. “Had a bit of trouble getting the box out.” So I rang on the next day, which happened to be a Saturday, feeling sure I’d be heading down the A1 in a few hours. “Your car’s a bit of a bugger, sir. Had a hell of a time getting the starter motor out,” bellowed Hull’s answer to Enzo Ferrari. “May be ready Monday afternoon.”
“Hang on,” I yelped. “Have you never repaired a four-wheel-drive like mine before?”
“We’ve done loads like it – but they were all diesel. Never done a petrol one before.” This may possibly be 100 per cent baloney, but at least the protracted delay has given me a rich opportunity to enjoy village life in the cosy days around the turning of the year. For the first six days, it rained virtually incessantly, then it snowed, then it began raining again.
At first, I responded energetically to my predicament. I squelched out into the back garden to hack away at an overgrown apple tree. Three hours snipping and sawing had no discernible effect on the look of the thing, but left me with a massive pile of branches. I filled our wheelie bin with pencil-sized twigs, but this had no discernible effect on my timber pile. Fed up with my flirtation with the lumberjack business, I crammed on one of Mrs W’s woolly hats and trudged off through the drizzle to the village shops.
This proved unexpectedly entertaining since you had to perform a sort of hopscotch in order to negotiate the prodigious number of dog turds lying in wait on the pavement. My progress along the high street was similarly stuttering, but this was because of the number of acquaintances I encountered. Unlike London, where you can happily count on seeing no-one you know, here I knew everybody. “Bet it’s a relief to be up from the Smoke,” people would say in the Co-op, the newsagents, the chemist’s shop… My answer, cheerily affirmative, was not entirely true. Seeking out a spot of healthy vegetation in the greengrocers, I found that the salad selection was limited to two bunches of elderly, stalky watercress. For that matter, I couldn’t get my usual toothpaste or the right coffee or decent orange juice. I dreamed of Waitrose, as distant and unattainable as Shangri-La.
On the plus side, the village butcher was selling plump pheasants at £6 per brace. Why the populace of North Yorkshire doesn’t dine on exclusively on game from October to March is a mystery. This is not the only gastronomic treat available in the village. The bakery specialises in yard-long lengths of rather fine Battenburg cake. Six inches will cost cost you about a quid. Accompanied by a cup of tea, a couple of slices of this confection, like miniature Ruritanian flags on your plate, instantly whiz you back to the Fifties. This pleasing illusion was enhanced by Channel 4’s Ealing Comedy season. “Look, Sydney Tafler as the bookie,” I’d announce to no-one at all. “And Charles Hawtrey as the pub pot-man!”
Live entertainment (of a sort) was also available in the village. I doubt if there are many places other than Yorkshire where the following notice, outside the village pub, would be considered an irresistible lure: “Friday – Hilda, Queen of Karaoke”. Sadly, it was Saturday. Desperate for diversion, I struggled through the snow in order to survey the village church (11th Cent). “Whachadooin’?” cried a young girl of perhaps eight, chomping a packet of crisps. “Areyernoo ‘ere?” Fearless, curious and amiably intrusive, she was a type of infant quite extinct in London. Accompanying me up to the church door, she disdainfully viewed my fruitless wrestling with the handle. “Betja someone’s in there,” she bellowed, her breath delicately perfumed with cheese and onion. To my horror, she started banging on the door with surprising volume. Thankfully, no irritated verger responded to this fusillade. It seemed a good moment to curtain my cultural exploration, so I bid farewell to my new friend and scuttled back to The Lavender Hill Mob. On the way home, it started snowing heavily, making the canine hopscotch even more dicey.
By Monday morning, the symptoms of stir-craziness were clearly evident (I found myself making a pork-pie sandwich), so I rang the garage in some desperation. “Sorry, sir, doubt if it’ll be today,” said my tormentor. “The inlet manifold took us hours to get out.” This prompted one of my rare but impressive eruptions. Announcing that I cared not a fig for inlet or even outlet manifolds, I yelled, hectored, jabbered, wheedled, even pleaded. “Give us a ring late afternoon,” conceded this Torquemada of the torque-wrench. “Might just be ready.”
By the following night, I was back with Mrs W, toasting my toes in front of the TV. A tempting, glossy advert came on for a stunning part of Britain – wonderful countryside, grand stately homes, exciting nightlife, superb resorts. Yep, that’s Yorkshire all right, but I’d steer clear in January.
By Monday morning, the symptoms of stir-craziness were clearly evident.