ARG. 

In fact, no, wait – ARRRRRG. 

That feels a bit better, but not much. 

So. Picture the scene: Quercus hasn’t had a car since he sold his beloved CX back in January, and he’s thus been using mine to go to and from work, which is fine, though as we live in the sticks, it’s rather circumscribed my activities (no bad thing – can’t get to shops, thus can’t spend money, or something, and no, now is not a good time to mention the positive plethora of delightful goodies available on the internet). All this time, he has been hunting down his particular vehicle of choice. Eventually, he found one, and managed to win the auction on eBay. So far, so good – good car, good price – but of course the car had to be in Manchester, didn’t it? For those not in the know, that’s about four hours from here by road, and more than that by train courtesy of the need to change in various places and of course the ineptitude of our train system here in the UK. But lo! my father was visiting! And lo! doth he not live within spitting distance – OK, within forty miles – of the car’s location? And lo! wast he not returning thither on Friday, i.e. today, the very day which Quercus had arranged to collect said vehicle? Verily – OK, let’s cut the crap, shall we? – he asked for a lift. And then there was a TREMENDOUS quantity of discussion. First, it was fine to give him a lift. To the door! Not a problem. Then, the car’s location appeared to move. Or something. Suddenly, it was a long way to go, and really not that close at all to where the parent needed to be, and perhaps he could take Quercus to a station en route? But not too en route – after all, he hadn’t planned to drive that way, and it would add ever such a long time to his already-long journey. And he and the new wife were planning on going out that night, so he’d need to be back in good time, and leaving at the very latest at about seven, and he couldn’t guarantee that they’d get to a particular station at a particular time, so it would be tricky for Quercus to book tickets, and didn’t Quercus understand that the M6 is not to be trifled with? At any cost? At any time? And Birmingham – who would drive to THE WEST of Birmingham? Who would do such a thing? 

So Quercus gritted his teeth, said nothing, and quietly booked a ridiculously early train from Devon to Manchester. He got up at 5.15 this morning, drove to Exeter, and got on said train. At 11.00, he was in Manchester. At 11.30 he discovered that, far from meeting him at the station as arranged, the car’s seller had sent ‘a friend’. And that the car, far from being in perfect condition as stated in the auction blurb, needed a new clutch. And that, while there was a V5 document* with the car, it wasn’t in the seller’s name. And it wasn’t in the friend’s name. In fact, the friend claimed it belonged to his mother. Who wasn’t with him. Or contactable. Or receiving the money for the car, as the seller wanted it paid to him, in cash, on collection. At this point, Quercus walked away, much to the seller’s (phone-based) wrath. So now he is stuck in Manchester, looking at £126 of train fare, or a £50 bus ticket for tomorrow morning. And he is still carless, of course. And he’s used a day of leave to do this. 

Also, I have a stiff neck which is bordering on insanity-inducing, courtesy, I think, of strange sleeping postures when the witchling came and slept with us for the last couple of nights (teething woes).

It is safe to say that today has not been one of glorious sunshine.  

*The UK thing which says you own the car and haven’t, well, pinched it, or cut-and-shut it, or anything else nasty or unsavoury.