I recently had the misfortune to break down on the A 30. I was about 15 miles from home, it was raining hard, and my wife and four-year-old daughter were with me.
There appeared to be no café handy, but the landlord of a nearby pub not only provided us with hot coffee, but a toy to amuse my daughter. Meanwhile, in the local garage, two mechanics were doing their best to fix my engine. It was soon apparent, however, that the cylinder head would have to come off and several spare parts would be needed, so I left the car with them and, within a few minutes, a passing motorist was taking us home.
Two days later I was able to collect my car—a 10-year-old Simca, for which my own garage habitually keeps me waiting six weeks or more for spares—and drive it away.
Where? Sutton Scotney. The pub? “The Saddler’s Arms.” The garage? Taylor’s. The passing motorist? I regret I don’t know, but thanks again—it’s nice to know that people like this are still around. . . .
M. Dale – Basingstoke.
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