Hey darling, how's the wing-mirror, is it fixed yet?
The Good-Lady trillled like a prize budgie nibbling one of those big seedy balls.
I made a weird hissing noise like a snake in a fire.
No. The dude from the garage phoned. The new one is coming on Tuesday and I have to take it in then.
I winced. I didn't like talking about the wing-mirror. It was an affront to my manhood. The memory of the day before rushed through my head.
I had raced to the supermarket for a beer run. I was in and out like Zorro on his wedding night and had trooped back to the car with a spring in my step despite the case of beer in my arms but then the sight that awaited me stopped me dead in my tracks.
In the mere brief moments of my beer shop someone had had intercourse with my car.
Meaning of course that they had fucked it.
I almost dropped my beer.
There she sat, immaculately parked in her bay with one wing-mirror forlornly hanging by a thread.
Who did this to you?!
I yelled, casting my head back and forth like a sick cow as I attempted to spy out the car-fucker.
But as hard as I looked, there was no car-fucker to be found.
I got in the car and drove home. I reassured myself that it would be ok. I could fix this. After all, I had a garage full of duct-tape. How could it not be fixed?
Back home, I duct-taped the car for hours until it resembled a suit of armour's penis but to no avail. The damn wing mirror wouldn't stay fixed in place.
To add insult to injury the mirror was so cracked that looking in it reminded me of the Bruce Lee fight with that old pensioner in Enter the Dragon.
And so, I had to swallow my man pride and call the Garage.
The Garage man, as friendly as a man who cuckolded other men for a living could be, had grinned down the phone at me and told me to bring it in on Tuesday and he would sort it out.
Sighing, I put the phone down and cleared my throat in a manly way.
The sound was reedy and thin like a Spaniard's cigarette.
After a time, I had regained some of my vim. There was nothing wrong with not being able to fix something, I told myself.
Everyone needs a helping hand occasionally, surely?
Yes. I was no less of a man for calling the Garage.
I snapped back to the present. The Good-Lady was saying something, her mouth flapping open and closed like a Sesame Street puppet.
So, I was speaking to my friend Germaline and she said her husband could pop around and have a look at the wing mirror. Rather than wait till Tuesday. That ok?
She beamed like a woman who had decided mid-gammie that teeth make everything much more exciting.
My pendulous testicles juddered backward from the impact of her words.
Wait, what? You have called another man in to fix my thing?
I squawked somewhat deliriously.
Yeah, you've met him, remember? Germaline's husband, Big Andy?
The Good Lady's eyes sparkled, no doubt imagining Big Andy and his smudgy sausage fingers looming over her all covered in oil.
I am familiar with Big Andy, yes. I know you will laugh but I don't really want another man poking about with my car.
I sniffed disapprovingly.
Oh god. This isn't about you and your mannity, is it?
The Good Lady rolled her eyes in exasperation as if my mannity was but an annoying thing and not something that was integral to the way that the universe worked.
No, of course it isn't.
I lied manfully.
Good, because he is on his way.
The Good Lady turned away, the matter settled.
I made a sad cat face. Another man, fiddling with my beautiful car? Touching its insides? And me, watching from the sidelines?
I stood up sadly. I supposed I had better go and choose a nice dress for the occasion.
