Drive

I'm sure you'll all be pleased to learn that Weezle the Diesel has made a rapid and full recovery from the recent unfortunate, and accidental poisoning. I can't speak highly enough of the wonderful mechanics, nut turners and  bodgers without whose skill and patience Weezle may well now be in some foreign field that is forever a scrap yard.

Not a splutter, not a back fire; the little angel started first time and we went for a quiet run, nothing too strenuous at this early stage. So complete was his recovery that "The Smiths Greatest Hits" played out extra loud. I suspect he had that on while he was jacked up having his enema. However, I noticed that he wasn't completely back to his old self as he made a total hash of the parallel parking - requiring at least three attempts (usually he can do it in two if the space is big enough).

I spent a restless night last night. I just couldn't settle. For some reason I thought that Weezel's case was near terminal or my bank balance would be. As soon as I thought it was decent I dashed down to the mechanic's.

"How is he?" I queried. My heart in my mouth.

"He's done - we did him last night - didn't think he'd get through the night otherwise." was the consultant mechanic's reply.


"What's the damage?" I was prepared for the worse.

"Oh, he wasn't too badly messed up. Oh you mean how much?" said the consultant in his best pit side manner. "£120, we've put £20 of diesel in."

"£140 then." I stammered not believing how cheap life could be.

"No £120, with the diesel. You're lucky the last one we had in like him came to two grand."

At that point a heavenly choir of angels belted out the "Hallelujah Chorus", and all the bells of London's churches pealed. I could have kissed the chief consulting mechanic - except his face was covered in diesel.

Who says there's not a fairy godmother for each of us. I even believed Jeremy Clarkson was redeemable.