Of a certain age

Several years ago, I had a client who's administration PC had an astounding knack of rebooting itself whenever its operator came near. The operator didn't have to be sat facing the workstation, nor touch either keyboard or mouse. Indeed, this machine was such a recalcitrant bugger that it would restart itself at the slightest feminine touch of the reset button as we discovered when observing, several times, said female's high heels crashing into the computer's front panel as she swung about the place in her chair.

Not being quite as silly as the aforementioned double-X chromosome, it therefore came as somewhat of a surprise last week when Ali failed to find an address where she was due to attend an interview. Nothing too unusual in that, or at least there wouldn't be were it not for the fact that she'd been unable to find it twice. And for the fact that she'd been there just a few days earlier.

Having had an initial interview, Ali had already attempted to make her second interview once before, getting hopelessly lost in the middle of nowhere having gone a totally different way (as suggested by Google Maps) and encountered several flooded roads at the time. Arrangements were made for her to attend again on Thursday and all seemed well with the world.

Thus to the penultimate day of the working week and my sudden awakening at howfuckingearlyo'clock by Ali's subtle bedroom doorway proclamation of "I'm screwed." It became apparent that North Devon had been on the receiving end of a rather large quantity of snow, 4 inches of which had iced over and was now forming an unwelcome second skin on her car that she had been unable to shift.

Hauling myself out of my pit pausing only to collect tracksuit trousers and a fleece top I duly marched downstairs with every intention of getting the girl to where she needed to be without further ado. Having pulled on my mismatched garments and finished my clothing ensemble-extraordinaire with the addition of sockless Reeboks, I strode majestically outside to take control of the situation. Two broken scrapers and plenty of expletives later, we finally set off in search of the elusive enclave.

The main drag from Bideford to Barnstaple was passable but only on a snow-restricted single lane with everybody proceeding in an understandably gingerly fashion. The six miles of main road showed no major casualties other than a couple of abandoned motorcycles and a broken down Alfa Romeo (like there's any other type). Sadly, it appeared that nobody suffering from a pathological desire to proactively screw traffic flow (a.k.a "Caravanners") had the balls to step out on the icy asphalt that day so we didn't even get to chuckle at an upside down Lunar Clubman (or whatever other bloody silly name they go by these days) en route.

Notwithstanding all that had gone before, we found ourselves not 5 minutes away from our destination with a good 15 minutes to spare. "Result! We'll make it for sure!" was the celebratory cheer inside the snowplough. At which point we turned into the final lane and found ourselves staring at a tree. "No problemo, little lady." Said I. "Take the wheel and I shall perform a manly hoist of that pesky tree right up over the top of the car so our safe passage can continue." Duly done, Ali edged the car under the tree (alright, small overhanging branch), returned to the comfort of the passenger seat whilst I plonked myself back in the first officer's seat to continue the journey. Which continued for another 150 yards until we came upon 6 trees (yes, actual *trees* this time) lying in the middle of the road. "Bollocks."

Wary of the depleted condition of Ali's phone battery (matched only in its near-empty glory by the state of the fuel tank, which had predicated a future lifespan of 13 miles some 15 miles previously) we made a vain attempt to locate the destination by another route and met with resounding failure. Resorting to the last few milliamps of power left in the Nokia, Ali made a call to the destination asking for alternative directions from our current location, which we followed to the letter and still never found the place. By this time, a tactical surrender to fossil fuel was our only available option and we slowly skulked our way back home bringing the first adventure of the day to an unsatisfactory close.

Arriving home a little after 10.00, I telephoned the local surgery to see if I could bag an appoint with my doctor. I'd seen him a few days earlier as I'd been suffering with a small problem in the plumbing department - namely an overpowering desire to pee all the time but having no actual need to do so - and it was quite obvious to me that the prescribed tablets were having no effect. Having been down this road before and as fellow men of a certain age will confirm, I was fairly certain that any return visit would involve a prostate check, but nevertheless it had to be done. Anal proddage duly arranged, I jumped in the shower, got some proper clothes on and headed up to town.

The visit to the doctor's office went as expected and I left clutching both my cheeks and a box of new drugs.

Upon returning to the motor, I noticed an old VW Polo having problems reversing from a space at the end of the car park. Wandering over, it became apparent that another gentleman of a certain age (his certain age being in my estimation about 30 years older than my certain age) had actually managed to bugger up the manoeuvre on two counts. Firstly, he'd parked on slick mud now covered in snow that offered no traction whatsoever. Secondly, he'd parked so far on to the grass that his back wheel had crossed the kerb and sunk into the mud. Much pulling, prodding and waggling backwards-and-forwards later (it was like being back in the surgery again...) we finally got the old duffer out. I got covered in mud and snow and can't decide whether I expect him or his car's clutch to survive the longest.

Still, at least one good deed for the day had a positive outcome and in conclusion I can report that the men and women of Lemmings towers are equally crap at navigation and should you ever have the need to find yourself in a desperate hurry to find somewhere in the middle of nowhere with snow on the ground and road-closing trees en route, all the time feeling like you need to piss for England whilst anticipating an upcoming bottom-poke, I can but only suggest you leave home with a full mobile battery, a full tank of fuel, money, old clothes, a tow rope, SatNav and a bloody good sense of humour.

By way of a postscript, you may like to know that Ali has a third appointment at the unfindable place in the morning which will be a lot easier for her as we went there earlier today and added it into the SatNav. You may also like to know that the price for a replacement Polo clutch is about £130, it costs £75 to fill a BMW 530i up from empty and I don't, at the moment, need to pee.