Got a message from a mate who's laid up after an op on his dodgy trotter. Short story, if I'm WFH, could I take him to a local mobility shop to pick up an electric scooter that he's hiring so that he can get about?
OK, meant to be working, but I'll take my lunch and drop him down there.
On the way, we get stuck in horrendous traffic at the local train station due to roadworks.
We park up at the back of the store and go in. There's several on offer and he tries them out. By this time I'm looking at my watch as I really should be working.
He chooses one, then the paperwork has to be done. Out we go and I then have to be shown how the fecking thing comes apart and how to put it back together so it fits in the car. Simple enough, but takes ten minutes or so.
I man-handle my mate on his crutches back into the car. Run round to the driver's side and in another parking bay there's an old girl in Micra with a flat rear tyre. I go tell her and find she's all a bit stressed saying the breakdown people want £165 to put a new tyre on. Fuck that, I say (not literally) and offer to change her tyre through gritted teeth. Get her shopping out, out come the spare wheel and jack. 'Where's your wheel brace, love?' Blank look. Onlooker offers hers, which take 5 mins to fish out. Doesn't fit.
I'm now faced with taking the dismantled mobility scooter out of my car, getting the compressor, spending 10 mins inflating her tyre and putting her shopping back, just to get her home. Finally done. Now I'm taking the piss with time.
I get all the shite back in my car, this time trapping my finger between the constituent parts of this fecking scooter. Away we go.
'Don't go back past the station', reminds my mate, before adding, 'But if we go via Petts Wood, would you mind stopping at the pharmacy to get my painkillers?'
I then have to drop him home and demonstrate to his missus how the scooter comes apart and reassembles.
3 hours...3 bloody hours!