LIZ JONES’S DIARY

In which my old banger breaks down in the middle of the moor

ON SATURDAY, I had to drive to Bristol to meet my sister, who was dropping off her son at uni, and a debt specialist to talk about the repossession of our homes by Handelsbanken. In June 2015, when I was facing bankruptcy in three days’ time, I called my office and warned them. The financial editor gave me the debt specialist’s number. She charged me a large sum of money up front. She introduced me to an insolvency practitioner, who also charged me up front. They appointed a solicitor, who again charged up front. And a new accountant, who now has control of my salary: he paid me £400 this month.

I set off, with the three dogs on the back seat. To get to the M6, I have to traverse the Yorkshire Dales, and thus the Pennines: it’s a perilous 30-mile drive. I got about halfway, and suddenly the car – the one HMRC made me buy for £1,000 two months ago – started to struggle with the hills. It made an awful noise and there was a strange smell of smoke. I kept going. I passed a group of walkers. They flagged me down.

‘Your gearbox has gone,’ a man said. ‘You will have to get it off the road.’

I was so stressed I’d gone blind as well as deaf, and couldn’t reverse, so he had to do it for me. Mini Puppy climbed on his lap. I looked at my phone. No service. The walkers flagged down the next car: it contained a lovely young woman who said she’d drive me to the nearest village: Nateby. ‘ But I have three collies.’ ‘That’s fine,’ she said, helping me load them into her pristine car.

She dropped me at the Nateby Inn. I tried the door. Closed. On a boiling hot Saturday lunchtime. I sat on the grass, found two bars of signal, and called the RAC. I gave the woman my postcode, told her I was outside the Nateby Inn. ‘You only have a ten-mile radius on your policy with Be Wiser Insurance,’ she said. ‘So we can’t tow you; we’ll have to try to fix it.’

‘The gearbox has gone. I’m not with the car, as there was no signal. So it’s about halfway home.’ ‘The patrol will be about 90 minutes.’ I sat on the grass hugging my dogs. I added up the amount I’ve spent on the old car since I bought it: more than the monthly cost of my Mercedes. Problem is, in my job I can’t be unreliable. In the past few weeks I’ve driven on assignments to Elstree, the Cotswolds, London, London, Mansfield, Hawes. I’ve been begging for a company car for 13 years, only to be told, ‘You’re not staff.’ I feel like staff. I act like staff, though I never sit at my desk, drinking lattes, chatting. I’m never late, or off sick, or on holiday. I’m award-winning.

After four and a half hours, still no RAC. My phone rang. ‘I’m the driver. Where are you?’

‘I gave the woman my sat nav location four and a half hours ago!’

He put the phone down. I fired off an email to the debt specialist, cc’ing my accountant.

‘Dear both. Once again, my old banger has broken down. In the middle of the moor. The gearbox has gone. Fourth time stranded in two months. Another day of stress and wasted time.

‘I cannot continue with this level of stress. I can no longer get to work or anywhere as I have no car or petrol. I won’t be able to get it repaired as I already owe the garage £300 from last time. I had no dinner last night. I will have no dinner tonight. As I explained to my accountant last week, if I don’t file copy, I don’t get paid. I have a ferocious number of words to submit each year to fulfil my contracts. If I don’t meet those targets, I’m penalised.

‘In the year since I met you both, things have got much, much worse. I have no hot water. No human being could endure what I’m going through every day. May I suggest you come up with a plan. ‘Many thanks. Liz’ I pressed send. I’ve yet to receive a reply. Eventually, the tow truck turned up at nearly 6pm. I hadn’t eaten in 48 hours. He dropped the car back at my house. As he reversed down my lane, I could see myself reflected in his eyes: a crazy lady with dogs, a pack of cats waiting by her door to be fed. An old car that doesn’t work. Biker boots (a freebie) so worn they’re an embarrassment. Make-up running down her face.

I still haven’t eaten.

‘Your gearbox has gone,’ a man said. ‘You will have to get off the road’