Well how stupid do I feel? I bragged; not humbly, about the two things I learned today whilst driving to Stranraer (after I’d calmed down following a meltdown-inducing ‘where-the-fuck-is-the-fucking-car’ incident).
Thing number one – I learned that the location of the petrol cap on a car is indicated by a handy wee symbol on your fuel gauge: namely that if the wee handle is on the right of the picture of the pump then your petrol cap is on the driver’s side and so on and so forth.
I posted this nugget of knowledge on Facebook and basked in the afterglow of a fact well shared and waited for the likes and gratitude to flood in, which they duly did.
Imagine then my surprise at the Big Tesco when I pulled up triumphantly at the pump, skipped jauntily and smugly out of the car to fumble with the pay-at-pump machine (my mind always goes blank at this point – I get petrol pump anxiety and can’t remember the difference between ‘pay at pump’ and ‘pay at kiosk’ in much the same way as I can never differentiate between people called Maureen and Marion. The anxiety of that makes my top lip sweat but that might be yet another symptom of the menopause – the moisture diverts from the bits of your body you’d prefer to have some moisture kicking around and diverts to your top lip and under your boobs, mysteriously.
I’ve digressed massively but I’m typing this sideways on my phone, in bed, so cut me some slack, kiddos.
So there I was, Tesco Clubcard in hand, looking at my car, willing a fuel cap to appear at the driver’s side. No such thing was in evidence. Nonplussed, I just gawped at the car, crestfallen, and making that face I reserve for when Jedward appear on my telly, wondering why the hell my car would lie to me.
Luckily the hose stretched to the other side of the bastard car, after I unfankled the three hoses which some previous arsehole had fankled, inducing another sweaty top lip at the possibility that I was filling my car up with either a) diesel, or worse b) the dear petrol which I’m convinced would give my car heartburn or something. It’s not used to such rich expensive foodstuffs.
Lesson learned: don’t believe everybloodything you hear on Radio 4.
The second thing I learned is that there’s an app to block those irritating ads on your phone when you’re googling. I hate that. If I could turn back time and say no to the acceptance of all those cookies which I accepted with such gay abandon I most certainly would.
Peace and love.