W
ITH Easter Sunday providing the first sunny day London had enjoyed in months, two enthusiastic couples set off on two scooters from the murky depths of their basement bedsitters, bound for the Weald of Kent and points south, petrol in tanks, spring in hearts etc etc.
The Expedition was a huge success until somewhere near Maidstone when Scooter A began to make ominous spluttering noises, which I pointedly ignored, being devoid of any mechanical knowledge other than how to change the spark plug. This option was eventually exercised with feigned confidence, but proved to be a heroic failure.
Progress was therefore maintained at walking pace until the partners also began making ominous spluttering noises. The Expedition then attempted to seek solace at a roadside pub only to find it closed as it was by then after 2.30pm (this was in the bad old days). Vicious complaints were made about English licensing laws by the two drivers while both partners’ noises now became very ominous indeed and disparaging remarks were made about people who did not know a split-pin from a hair-pin.
Scooter A now refused to start at all and, after flex was borrowed from a neighbouring farmer, was towed ignominiously by Scooter B to the nearest garage where the staff displayed complete disinterest in effecting repairs or anything else for that matter (“It’s a public ’oliday for Gawd’s sake, mate.”) The Expedition was now at a complete standstill. Various suggestions were made by partners as to what we could do with our scooters and ourselves, none of them in the least bit flattering.
After a crisis meeting that would have done credit to any international summit for its inconclusiveness (other than to wait until the pubs opened and seek solace in strong drink, an option that was not exercised as the mind boggled at possibly having to face a “drunk in charge of a stationary scooter”