“Could the owner of a pink car, registration FL23 please make their way to the kiosk,” came the tannoy announcement at Co-op in Auchterarder yesterday.
The couple in the cereal aisle looked at each other. “Pink?” she said. “Who has a pink car?”
I didn’t have time to tell her “a mother of three boys”.
Instead, I rushed to the till, wondering what the problem could be. I’d definitely parked in a proper space – having waited until one came available.
A young man looked sheepish.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “My van has rolled into your car.”
I looked at him.
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. Sorry. If you come with me I’ll show you.”
As we walked, he explained he’d not put his handbrake fully on and off it had rolled.
The damage wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Hopefully it’s just the paintwork and bumper that needs work. The guy was very apologetic and sad – and gave me his details.
As I scanned the scene, I noticed the car park was on a slight slope. His work van had rolled down the decline, diagonally across a full car park, to hit mine and no others. It was bad luck.
I felt flat and deflated – but I also felt lucky. Lucky that the results hadn’t been worse – for a large van could have crushed the back end of my car. And no one had been hurt.
I was determined to keep a glass half full and to see the silver lining – and all the other positive sayings I might say to the kids.
I’m not sure what other pluses can be gleaned – other than knowing that if ever built a car park, I wouldn’t put it on a slope.
Also, now I’ve got the name and number of a plumber (the van driver) – which, along with bungalows and accountability at Olympia swimming pool – is like hen’s teeth.
Suddenly, the afternoon I’d envisaged after finishing work early, was gone. There would be no leisurely coffee while I wrote this column – and a to-do list of emails and bills wouldn’t shrink but grow, adding calls to garages and insurers into the mix.
In the words of Robert Burns: “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.”
Frantically, I made it just in time to pick up Chester from rugby practice.
I asked him why he wasn’t wearing a top.
“Oh, I fell in fox poo. Don’t worry, my top’s in a plastic bag. Except there’s some poo on the bag.”
“And where’s the bag?” I said.
It was too late – as well as mullered paint work, my new car had fox poo in the boot.
As was popular on car bumpers and popularised in the movie Forrest Gump – and as they say – ‘you-know-what happens.’
It’s true, it really does.
And when life gives you lemons, we can but try to make a G&T.
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