Our p.o.s car is called George.

I’m about to rename him Lazarus.

Picture this : I wake up yesterday morning, (always non compos mentis without my first cup of coffee) to be told that George’s battery is dead as a donut. But not to worry, Himself will get home at 4pm and charge the battery with the work van.

Himself got home many hours later.

: I wake up this morning (ditto in brackets above) to be told that George will be charged by work van in an hour or two.

YAY. Jump leads out. Battery charged. And then…..

…George goes totally mental again and wakes up the entire village with his bloody alarm every time we open the car door. The hazard lights can’t be turned off and all hell has broken loose.


Younger son helped. Me and he went through google to try and fix the bastard car and then – well over an hour later – we are doing the equivalent of a bomb defuse. Brown wire or black wire. Oooooh. Tense.

The outcome? Lazarus came back from the dead and I was able to go into town to buy food.

My son has a “don’t let the bastards grind you down” mentality too. I blame his mother :o)