Lay By

Today was a perfect day for it, whatever ‘it’ might be. The day was warm and sunny with clear blue skies. Of course I should know by now that the evil Fairy of Embarrassing Incidents has more places to hide in the dark shadows cast by bright sunshine. Still, never one to learn from experience, I look at a cloudless sky and see the opportunity to combine a number of ill-thought out activities in increasingly precarious ways. I’m not known as Throw-Caution-To-The-Wind-Reeve for nothing, although it is a monicker than seems more commonly used when I face a large plate of beans.

My mind was set: I would drive my recently-restored-broken-down-twice-in-the-last-month classic sports car across two counties to an airfield where I would hurl myself out of a perfectly serviceable aeroplane two and half miles above the ground. What possible room for disaster? I thought to myself.

The trouble with leaping out of planes in weather like this is that the jumpsuits are so hot. Oh, they’re fetching, all right. Mine’s black with flashes of purple and white. It’s quite tight too, of course. My, I look a picture! Just like I’ve just stepped of the stage of a flamenco dance-off for people with no rhythm and a penchant for helmets and goggles. Auntie Bill would be so proud. But they are hot. Damn hot. It’s not unlike fleeing a crowd of angry Chinese gymnasts wearing a leotard and leggings and discovering the only safe haven is a sauna populated by welders.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like to sit in a hermetically-sealed Lycra sack as much as the next man. Indeed, nothing perks me up quite as much as swilling around in my own sweat for a couple of hours, particularly if surrounded by close friends with big bags. But even I, the Perspiration Poobah, can only stand so much submersion and take the necessary steps to minimise the situation in all but special occasions. It is important to understand that we often do things in particular situations that might seem a little, shall we say, ‘odd’ in normal life. But I can assure you that tiny shorts and a vest top are perfectly acceptable undergarments for any respectful skydiver. And certain cabaret artistes.

You’ll be pleased to hear than nothing untoward happened at the airfield. In fact, if you accept plummeting to near-certain death as normal, it was a perfectly ordinary afternoon. Quite splendidly - no-one, least of all me, died or suffered any unpleasant collision of any sort. That sort of thing can spoil even the balmiest of days. But no-one was spoiled, stained or contaminated in any way, sweat aside that is.

However, these things often have a habit of taking a little longer than one expects and start to bump up against later appointments. I found myself needing to hurry home as the day slipped away. Rather than change completely I decided, without too much thought, to strip out of my jumpsuit and drive back more or less as God intended - with a couple of scraps of Nike-manufactured cotton covering my haste and nipples. Just. But in the safety and seclusion of my own car who would know, let alone mind? Besides, a bit of breeze would do me the world of good.

The English countryside on an early Summer’s evening is precisely what my car was designed for. I felt like Toad tootling down the hedge-lined lanes, beeping my horn for no particular reason. It was glorious. And the breeze around the various Chippings, very welcome.

Now I’m no mechanical expert but a clank from the engine followed by the overwhelming reek of petrol is rarely a good thing. As the cabin filled with fumes and the fuel gauge swung violently to empty, I began to suspect something might be wrong. A flat tyre, maybe. I was slightly concerned about my big end, especially in my current attire, and the prospect of being stranded on the edge of a quiet road with no suitable tool to fiddle with. Thankfully as the engine spluttered it’s last cough I managed to coast into a picturesque lay-by. At least here I could await rescue.

I called my breakdown recovery service. They promised to send a man. Sometime in the next week.

I waited.

It turned out that the lay-by wasn’t quite as quiet as I’d first imagined. The first three or four cars that pulled up were looking for the nearby prison. It wasn’t immediately clear whether to visit, attend or perform a breakout. Mercifully, the young thugs in their souped-up rides were not in the least bit interested in me or my little yellow car. They merely conducted some drugs deal, dumped some bagged up corpse or swapped Go Faster stripes before racing off in a cloud of wheel-spin.

As the light faded, the lay-by’s clientele changed. Not actually for the better. A steady procession of nondescript cars started to arrive, all with the passenger seat uncomfortably reclined.

Their drivers fell into one of two categories, small weasely men in tank-tops or great hulks of mankind with tattoos and moustaches. They pulled up slowly and wound down their windows with more suggestion than I can describe. Unlike the earlier disinterested visitors, these men seemed eager to ask questions. And most of them concerned the quickest route to Little Bottom, a local village I hadn’t heard of.

Of course, I was able to diffuse the situation immediately, as I sat on my bonnet. In my skimpy shorts. And vest top.

And let me tell you, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation running screaming into the neighbouring field is not necessarily the cleverest thing to do either.

I fear it’s the last time I ever see that little car of mine. Or those shorts.

Comments

[Mrs RW]

Oh, Carlton, you do like to "walk on the wild side". You devil, you. Did you happen to break the land-speed record while fleeing from the lay-by visitors??

[Carlton]

I'm not sure about the land speed record, Mrs RW. I'm pretty sure I broke something though...

c.