The Londoner came for the day yesterday, and it was lovely to catch up on all her exploits and travels. It was scorching, and while Hugo struggled to stay cool by lying in the full glare of the sun we lounged in the shade of the umbrella. She loves being up here, the contrast with London so great, and we both wished she could have stayed. When I collected her from the station in the morning it meant driving along a few miles of newly made road, and I went slowly to avoid the richocheting stones. But on the way to the house I realised something was badly wrong with the car. An hour or so before she was due to leave I took it down the lane again to try it out, and it was still very ropey but usable, so I ignored it. But going back to the station it handled very badly and made a horrible noise, so I resolved to take it to the garage the next day. "It'll be a stone caught somewhere," said my visitor. "Hopefully it will just fall out by itself." Sitting at the closed level crossing a man approached us and asked if we knew we had a completely flat tyre. What? I couldn't believe it. Why had this not occurred to me? Did I have someone who could come and change it for me, he wanted to know. But no, I laughed ruefully. And what did he do next? He changed it for me, and the thing he took off was not so much flat as shredded, ripped to pieces. Luckily the wheel itself was undamaged. My saviour was called Steve, such a nice man. Within 15 minutes he had finished the job, his hands covered in oil and grease. I offered him the water bottle and a wad of tissues, all the time thanking him profusely for his generosity. I think he was pleased with himself, glad he had been of such help. What an unselfish act.
And Hugo? He lay in the back of the car completely unconcerned that a man was dismantling our car. Good to know he takes such good care of me. Hope he never needs to.
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