Bright sparks go on a journey — sort of

charge), the recalcitrant machine was towed 15km back to Maidstone by Scooter B. The partners were left on foot with instructions to hitch a lift or catch a bus and “rendezvous at Maidstone Station”. On the scooter party’s arrival at Maidstone it was found that there were in fact two stations. It was now not “too soon to panic”, but being pre-cellphone days, communication with partners was impossible.

The partners eventually turned up after three hours, having had to walk the whole distance to Maidstone owing to lack of public transport or public interest in proffered thumbs — and then going to the wrong station. They were not amused. The men were too exhausted to care.

The entire skeleton staff of Maidstone (East) were then engaged with the problem of getting two scooters and four grumpy people (some a great deal more grumpy than others) into the one small van of the next London-bound train. (“It’s against regulations”; “It’s more than my jobsworth,” etc.) Resorting to a timeless tradition, bribes were eventually offered and accepted and, suddenly, “jobsdone”.

The journey back to London in the confines of the van was not punctuated by scintillating conversation.

Eventually arriving at Charing Cross Station after midnight, our partners were put onto the last Tube to Earls Court, promising never to venture out anywhere on scooters again, particularly with men. The recalcitrant scooter was towed unceremoniously back to its garage. All parties eventually regrouped in the aforesaid basement bedsitter and had hysterics. Our Easter eggs, offered as peacemakers, were summarily destroyed. The following day the trouble was traced to the spark plug. My relationship with both scooter and partner was all but at an end. — © David Alston

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