The hardest shoulder to shoulder

The road stretches as far ahead as the eye can see, going all the way from here to cream teas, beaches, cooked breakfasts and frantic games of Uno. The heat is incredible and the sun bright but not fierce, perfect weather for a weekend away. There is only one problem, and that’s that the car is by the side of the road in a lay-by.

It’s clearly going nowhere in a hurry.

The sound of the traffic is almost deafening, a humming throb which makes conversation almost impossible. Kelly clambers into the car and calls the breakdown people. The only thing my presence guarantees is that they will take longer to arrive. This adds to my general uselessness. The call made, Kelly sits by the side of the road and idly leafs through her paperback, waiting for help to arrive. I am not help. I pace agitatedly up and down along the grassy verge, trying in vain to check out train timetables on my phone. Things are not going well.

Just under an hour later the vehicle arrives. The driver, a rotund and jovial West Country type, bounds over. He is all beaming enthusiasm. Over the next ten or so minutes the bonnet is popped open. Tubes are disconnected and reconnected. The car is started and revved, and revved again. His hands are utterly filthy. He wanders round the car with Kelly as they talk about the specifics of the size and type of the engine, the number of cylinders it is firing on, all sorts of information that means nothing to me at all. He explains in compendious, friendly detail just how badly screwed our car is.

I am used to people in situations like this talking to me as if I am the person they need to talk to, only to realise quickly that I am not. Kelly is the one in our flat with a toolbox. She’s the one who likes a challenge. When I find something difficult, I just give up and do something else.

So while they talk, shouting to be heard over all the other - irritatingly mobile - cars, I do what I always do in these situations. I stand by the side of the road looking off into space. None of what they say is comprehensible to me. I can pick something from the wine list, I can tell you a good restaurant, I can recommend you a CD, but I am not the man you need if your car breaks down or your computer doesn’t work or your toilet won’t flush or you need a washer tightened. I was never good at sport, I can’t drive and I absolutely cannot put up a shelf. When I was at school, despite being shown dozens of times, I never successfully managed to wire a plug.

I’m just not that kind of man. At times like this, I am barely a man at all.

We are towed to a grubby and unprepossessing industrial estate near the mediocre town of Andover. Our rescuer cheerfully informs us that his colleague will be taking us back to Reading on a significantly bigger vehicle. At this point the first of our friends are arriving at the cottage, many miles away. I check my phone. We have over an hour to get to the train station if we want to arrive at a sensible time.

The second driver is considerably less cheery than the first. He’s a ginger man with close cropped hair who says the grand total of three words as we load the car onto his incongruously clean truck. We sit in the back like naughty children as he pulls away. In all the time we are travelling he does not speak at all. He wears Robocop shades and has an awful lot of piercings - including a glinting metallic cluster of studs at edge of his eyebrow. He is also one of the slowest drivers I have ever seen in my life.

Some way down the road he decides to stop at a petrol station. He climbs down and walks away from the flatbed truck without saying a word. It soon becomes apparent as we watch his disappearing figure that he isn’t going to the toilet. He isn’t filling up either. Over five minutes pass and our chances of catching the train fade to nothing.

As he plods back towards the vehicle I realise for the first time that he can’t be more than five feet four inches tall. He climbs up the step gripping a large cup of coffee which he plonks unceremoniously in his cup holder. An insipid cup of “Good Bean Company” americano is the reason why we’re going to miss our train. He pulls off again with no apology, no explanation, nothing even approaching a running commentary. It’s not even a stumbling commentary or a commentary in a wonky wheelchair.

I start to wonder whether he’s doing a sponsored silence.

It turns out to be contagious. Just as it’s hard to have a conversation on a Tube train, it’s difficult to talk in a breakdown truck driven by a pierced, grumpy ginger midget. Especially when the main thing you want to say is “I can’t believe how rude this pierced, grumpy ginger midget is”. There is plenty of time to check out the cabin of his truck. Hanging from his rear view mirror is a small football shirt. On it are the words STUPID PEOPLE SHOULDN’T BREED.

Pictures of his children are Blu-tacked to the inside of the driver’s side door.

I get so bored that I send Kelly a text. This couldn’t be a much longer route to Reading if it went via frigging Dorset I say. She almost cracks a smile.

Silent, awkward minutes pass. We stare out of our respective windows. The sun begins to set and our train prepares to leave Reading station, undeterred by the sad fact that we will not be on it. Meanwhile, in darkest Dorset our friends pour the first of many gin and tonics they are going to enjoy without us.

We come off the motorway and head up the road to Reading, past the wind turbine, past the football stadium. My phone pings with a text from Kelly.

I haven’t seen him drink ANY coffee she says.