So there we were, curving nicely round the rotary traffic system in front of the hospital. We pulled off, nice and controlled and S- flicked on the indicator to pull over. Husband misjudged the distance though, skimming the curb with his front tyre. A loud, gunshot-bang followed, and gingerly I set foot outside.

Barely audible over the rush of the morning traffic, I was only just able to hear the distinct and dreadful hiss of air escaping. The tyre on the near-side wheel was no more.

Thinking fast, we whacked the car out of gear, pushing the wounded Polo off the grass bank while there was still a little air in the tyre. We made it to a concrete drive-way entrance and set about rectifying the damage as best we could.

After much swearing, we were finally able to free the jack and spare wheel from Volkswagen’s all-too-well-designed prison and employ them to our advantage. After the mechanism holding the wheel in place, the hub-cap caused the most difficulty, requiring a combination of a small wire key and brute force before we could get to the necessary bolts.

But time was not on my side. Hands covered in a thick layer of car, I left Husband to finish the job as I had an interview in the hospital.

Despite the fact I’ve been working there for 3 months now, I had no idea where I was going and stumbled through the corridors with distressed eyes on my oily hands until someone kindly pointed me in the direction of A&E*. I followed their advice, despite the fact I needed the x-ray department, simply because I didn’t know what else to do. Happily, my sojourn meant I stumbled on a sink. Leaving a grey line around the basin, I set off again, following the ever-illusive signs to my destination.

When I finally did find the reception I was meant to find, the interview went well. I got a few laughs from the panel and didn’t embarrass myself too terribly. Or so I thought. Arriving home, I nipped into the toilet, only to be confronted by a soft grey smear on my cheek and the ghost of tyre-tread on my left shoulder.

Before discovering my somewhat dishevelled appearance though, I nipped into town to check out the haberdashery in John Lewis and almost lost the entire of my bank-balance to a pair of Levi 501s. I’m not normally a brand-conscious sort of person – I’m still wearing clothes I bought when I was 13, afterall – but something about these jeans made me want them more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. Perhaps it was the 28 inch waist, rather than my previous pair of jeans which sported the number 34… Thankfully, I managed to resist until getting home when I saw the exact same pair on ebay, second-hand, for £2.99, rather than the store’s £80.

The plan this afternoon is to clean up the house, sew a peg-bag which won’t drop to bits like the current one, and generally get the place looking a bit presentable. It’s a fairly tall order for one woman, but I shall try anyway. Mostly it’s an excuse to whack the stereo on full, blasting cheesy 90s rock.

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*Accident and Emergency, the equivalent to ER for my friends across The Pond.

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