Well, I collected the Nut’s old BMW, which means I have wheels again. I also decided not to bother replacing the turbo myself. Why the hell would I when I have a maniac mechanic who’ll happily do it for me? Really, you know, those days are gone, though there was a time when I spent much of my life with skinned, bleeding knuckles and a blackened face, lying in the pissing rain under some ratbag of a car trying to keep it on the road against all odds.
I’ll have no more of that nonsense. I’ve swapped engines, drive-shafts, torsion bars, McPhersons, wishbones, ball-joints and clutch-plates. I’ve stripped down carburettors and replaced head gaskets. I once fixed a shattered constant velocity joint with a needle file on the kitchen table. I’ve even changed the engine mountings on a Mini, more than once, the little bastards.
Enough of all that. I’m old, I’m weary, but most of all, I’m no longer that poor, and I can afford to pay the maniac mechanic. Life is too short to stuff a turbocharger.
I was going to enthrall and delight you with a long post full of my wisdom and wit, but I’ve had a call from my old friend, Wrinkly Joe, who just happens to be in town. This is God’s way of telling me to go carousing and therefore carousing I will go. Who am I to deny God’s will?
No enthralling and delighting for you this fine evening.
Wish me luck, my friends. I’m just going out. I might be some time.