Archive for November, 2006

… you may think that you only did minimal damage and that it wouldn’t cost much to sort it out so there was no need to leave your details


what you have actually done is bend the support strut on the drivers side rear panel. THis means that as my car is old and has high milage it will cost so much to repair that there’s a good chance it will be written off.

Strictly speaking it is undrivable as the dent is in such a place that the seatbelt is trapped. I had to drive it to work this morning anyway, 15 miles down a busy fast A-road, with no seatbelt.

So you may think it is OK not to leave your details but what you have actually done is write off my car and leave me in a position where I will only get enough off the insurance to replace it with an old banger. I had looked after that car and it was in good nick despite its age and milage and could have lasted another couple of years at least. I don’t have the money to replace it like for like.

I want to claw your eyes out.

You utter twat.



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Clicky here to find out your chances

Lincolnshire has a 60% chance of snow on the 25th December – hopefully it will snow so hard I won’t be able to get to work on the 27th, 28th and 29th.

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We had a fab weekend (car notwithstanding), we took Little’un to Blackpool for the weekend where she could be thoroughly spoiled by her Granny and Auntie Sibling 3.  She was allowed to eat chocolate weetabix for breakfast, a treat I was never allowed as a child 😥

We spent an afternoon in Liverpool taking Little’un to meet two of my aunts (HelenAnn56 being one of them) and their families for the first time (she is 2 – this is a discraceful lapse of sociability) where she was also spoilt rotten.  She came home with a doggy (not a real one thank god), a Bugs Bunny, a gorgeous jigsaw of a Tunisian scene with camels carved from wood, a mug shaped like a camel and books uncountable.  She also fluttered her eyelashes at everyone in an effort to make them all love her and give her biscuits and chocolate.  Which worked.

It was so much fun.  Must do it again in rather less than two years’ time.

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Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

We went to Blackpool this weekend to see my Mum & Sibling 3.  We had a lovely time and saw lots of other people too (of which more later).

We saved some money on the way home that would ordinarily have been spent on diesel.  About a tenner’s worth, The Yorkshireman reckons.  We did that by having the car towed about 110 miles from Hartshead Moor Service Station on the M62 near Leeds all the way home. 

We were happily pootling along in our new shiny big car when the woman who lives in the dashboard told us there was a fault and we needed to contact a Renault Dealer straight away (cue sounds of £££ quickly leaving our bank account).  This was on a Sunday evening.  In November.  In the pissing rain.

It took the Nice Man nearly 3 hours to tow us home.  He was due to finish his shift about 10 minutes after he arrived on scene, but he didn’t seem bothered that he was going to be much later home than he thought.  I can only assume that the overtime rates for a Sunday evening are worth the aggravation.

As we speak, The Yorkshireman is gingerly driving our poorly car the 26 miles to Grantham, as our local dealer couldn’t look at it until Friday but Grantham can look at it today.  I will report back later with exactly how much money we are going to be fleeced by pay the nice Renault people.

That goddam car is a total pain in the arse and no mistake.

Edit: Turned out it was the obble flobble whatsit solenoid valve thingy that had broken.  It was fixed at a cost of about £65 which was thankfully rather less than the £1,000+ we were expecting to have to pay for a new turbo charger.  Phew.

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The Blood Donor (well, almost…)

I went to give blood yesterday.  I had to go after work and because I fainted last time* I made The Yorkshireman come with me in case I fainted again and couldn’t drive home, which of course meant that Little’un had to come too.

It was really busy and I had to hang around for ages.  I haven’t given blood in 3½ years (a combination of a piercing, pregnancy and getting round to it again) so I was treated as a  new donor which meant going through a health questionnaire with a fine toothcomb. 

I was welcomed at the door and given a number then asked to go and wait at the registration desk.  After about 5 minutes my number was called and I was registered.  I then had to wait for health screening.  For about half an hour.  I had the finger prick test which I failed, so I had to have a blood sample taken to check my iron levels.  It would appear that I haven’t been eating my greens as my levels were low – too low to donate but thankfully not low enough to warrant a trip to the quack. 

So after spending an hour waiting my turn to see various people, I went home with pretty much all the blood I arrived with.  Little’un was tired and incredibly bored and it was all The Yorkshireman could do to stop her screaming the place down.  I definitely need another plan of action for when I go back.

I had eaten a slice of battenburg cake too, having met Sheryl for lunch at Morrisons café (we know how to party) and therefore having an excuse to pig out a bit.  This was to be my gift to the recipient of my blood – lots of lovely sugar to help their healing process.

I’m not allowed to try again for three months, so, this month I will mainly be eating broccoli.

*This makes me look like a wimp.  My wimpishness is a matter of some debate but in this instance I don’t think it’s a fair tag.  I had sucessfully given my pint and was sitting in the tea area having a coffee when the world started spinning and suddenly everyone seemed very far away.  Every nurse in the room suddenly appeared around me as I started coming to.  It was possibly the most mortifying thing that has happened to me in a long while as the room was very open and a lot of people could see me looking very pissed indeed.  I was made to lie on a bed for half an hour before I was allowed to leave and I was told not to drive.  I had gone during my lunch break and fortunately someone else from work had driven otherwise I would have been either stranded or driving whilst not in a fit state.
It turns out that the coffee I had drunk had caused me to faint as the heat to my stomach caused all my blood to leave my brain for a visit to my stomach.  Over I went.  I have to stick to cold juice from now on after a donation and I should have an extra biscuit.  The nurses told me to.  So I will.

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The Saga of the Yorkshireman’s Car

I hope you have a spare half hour in which to read this long and sorry tale…

Well as you know the Yorkshireman has a new car. It is very big and incredibly very shiny.

True to form for us though, the running was not smooth when it came to acquiring the beast.

It all started when I was offered my job and we knew we could afford to take out a loan. The Yorkshireman knew exactly what he wanted, although most cars available were slightly out of our price range. After much time spent browsing Autotrader he found the perfect one, just the right price with all the right toys. It was even a nice colour. So he drove all the way to the edge of darkest Manchester to have a look at it. Having fallen in love, he put down a deposit.

All too easy we thought. Turns out we were right.

The car needed some work doing on it (the gear linkage, whatever that might be, needed replacing) so he was due to collect it the following week after the work had been done. Being a very clever and careful Yorkshireman he did an HPI check on the car during that week. Guess what! Go on, guess…….

The car was registered as stolen 😯

This was discovered late on a Saturday night, so on Sunday morning The Yorkshireman rang the garage. The bloke who answered seemed genuinely shocked to find out our news, he said that the car had been bought from a main dealer so as far as he was concerned it was Kosher. He said that he would look into it and get back to us.

He rang back on the Monday morning… and… The car had been reported stolen by the garage we were buying it from a few days earlier. It had been nicked from the workshop overnight after the key had been left in it. The guy that The Yorkshireman spoke to had no idea about this because he had just returned from holiday and he hadn’t spoken to anyone about it until the Monday as no-one had wanted to spoil his holiday with the news. However the office phone was forwarded to his mobile on the Sunday so he took The Yorkshireman’s original call.

Back to square one then.

The Yorkshireman started his hunt again, and found an identical car (not exactly the same car!). Off he went to have a look. This one was more expensive and had a slightly higher mileage so we were a bit reluctant to go ahead and we were beginning to wonder if we would find a deal as good as the original one.

Whilst pondering, he got a call from the original garage. The car had been found, undamaged, about 25 miles from where it was stolen. The gear linkage (whatever that might be) had rendered the car virtually undrivable so it had been abandoned. Unscathed. So we decided to go ahead with the original deal.

The key that was in the car when it was stolen was still missing, so we were given a cheque for a new one (over a hundred quid for a CAR KEY ffs – we got a copy of my little car’s key for substantially less than that, by a factor of about 10). We had to get the car booked into our local main dealer to get the key programmed which resulted in me, Little’un and the visiting Babies Everywhere and Babychair spending an hour sitting in a showroom. Not a place for a two-year-old and a two-month-old as I’m sure you can imagine. Babychair was very well behaved bit Little’un left sticky finger marks all over one of the cars.  Shame.

Anyway, back to the story… we finally got our hands on our shiny new car. The Yorkshireman took it out for a test drive (the gear linkage, whatever that might be, having been fixed) and we shook on the deal and left our old car behind.

Almost immedieately we noticed that the air conditioning wasn’t working. Apparently it’s fairly common for all the gas to escape from the aircon so we thought nothing of getting it regassed and all would be rosy. The car was also pulling left, easily fixed, a quick visit to Mr Tyre (how do they come up with these company names? Mr Tyre, I ask you) and some adjustment of tracking soon sorted that.

The aircon wasn’t so easy. When The Yorkshireman took it to be regassed it was discovered that there was a broken pipe somewhere in the system that needed replacing at a cost of a couple of hundred quid. He rang the garage we had bought the car from and asked if this would be covered by the warranty – unsurprisingly, the answer was a resounding “NO”. The garage did say they would try and press the warranty company to pay for the repair and that they would get back to him.

We waited. We waited some more. And we waited.

The Yorkshireman, being a very resourceful Yorkshireman indeed, rang East Midlands Trading Standards and asked them whether he had a case against the garage seeing as he had bought a car advertised as having aircon which turned out not to be working. They advised him to wave the Sale of Goods Act at the garage and tell them to pay the repair cost. He duly sent a snotty email and was told that we should make the repair and send the invoice back to the garage and they would reimburse him the cost.

So we have a very big, very shiny car that is now in full working order.

We are still waiting for the cheque though.

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A girl after GGM’s heart…

Little’un (hereafter referred to as Imelda Marcos) has a thing for shoes.  She has a pair for every occasion, some of them fairly cheap (wellies for nursery £2 from Asda) and some of them insanely, ridiculously expensive.

It’s that time of year when little feet start to get cold, so we had a trip into town last weekend to buy winter shoes/boots.  We ended up in Clarks buying a pair of boots that were somewhat pricey but were the only ones that fit her feet properly.

She was really taken with having her feet measured and ever since we have been playing “New Shoes” and having our toes squished by little fingers and shoes shoved on our feet in that awkward way that two-year-olds have.  My little toes, by rights, should be hanging off the sides of my feet after all that rough treatment.

They don’t tell you this sort of thing at anti-natal classes.

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