Rab’s happy day is brought to a screeching halt

Our man is flush, the taxman has given him an unexpected sum of cash, and life is good. What better way to spend this extra money, then, than by paying to fix his car, which has been towed. Again.

O h, the ignominy! To be towed away again. Just to be clear, I don’t meant that I personally was towed away, though I know that’s been suggested from time to time.

No, I mean the car. I should have known something bad was going to happen. Why? Because I was happy. My accountant had just told me I was £318 to the good on the tax front. On top of that, it was Friday and I hadn’t any work to do.

So, as I drove to the supermarket, I promised myself a few treats, perhaps even some food. “Life is good,” I thought, though even at such a time I had the presence of mind to add: “Occasionally.”

I parked up, entered the mall with a hey-nonny-no-worries and stravaiged around the aisles like Lord Muck, confident that, on this occasion at least, my card wasn’t going to be declined at the till.

After filling my hand-basket with goodies, I looked forward to getting home, wherein I would stuff my face Rab resumes acquaintances with the tow truck driver. Picture: Getty Images. and watch one of the old Disney noncartoon DVDS that I’ve been collecting of late.

But the remote key-thing wouldn’t work at the car. I assumed it was just the battery for that, as I’d been getting warnings on the dashboard about it which I had, of course, ignored.

My car’s a Volvo and it’s always warning you about something: “Get the car serviced”; “That’s another light bulb away, big nose”; “Your hat’s on squint.” Well, now it was a case of the boy who cried “Battery!”.

I returned to the mall and eventually secured the right battery. But still the doors wouldn’t unlock. I got into the car, though, using a little metal key you could extract from the remote.

Right, I thought, now to get home. But the car wouldn’t start. Long story short, I’d to call out the rescue organisation to which I subscribe and, two and a half hours later, they arrived.

At first, they thought it was just a flat battery. But, after many attempts to revive that, they discovered it was something else that fed the battery. Which meant they’d have to get a tow truck out, and we’d to leave that till Monday when my trusted garage would be open again.

After negotiating with supermarket security not to persecute my unwillingly parked car, I trudged home, cold and wet and carrying my shopping, and conscious that several hours of my life had disappeared doon the drain.

On the Monday, I’d to wait another two hours after the appointed time for the tow truck to arrive, whence I suffered the ignominy of being stared at by passing shoppers as my car was loaded up.

Oddly enough, the last time my car was towed away was at the garage of this very same supermarket, after my then-partner poured petrol into the diesel tank. I’m sure people were thinking: “It’s him again.”

My garage boys are the best and fairest in the business (I discovered them on yet another occasion when I had a car towed away), but the repair bill still came to £320. And so it is with a heavy heart that I say unto you: “The Lord giveth the tax rebate and the Lord taketh it away.”