A big announcement

It all began a month ago. We were packed to go to Ansouis market, the wine was in the boot of the car and there were table legs and boxes protruding at irregular angles from the back seat. I turned the ignition. Nothing, not even an apologetic cough.

The car we drive has a long history of electrical faults which can sometimes seemingly be rectified by a couple of softly spoken words. Examples of past misdemeanours include the locks refusing to open when we are due to return to England, or on hot days with the hood down, the wiper fluid reservoir inexplicably emptying giving us an impromptu shower. In our heads these problems have imbued the car with a whimsical personality. And so I stroked the bonnet, muttered encouragement and tried the ignition again. Still nothing.

The next day we called the breakdown services. After lots of embarrassingly poor French, they promised to be at the house within the hour. I tried the car again, just in case. It started immediately. In another life our ancient BMW might have been a dead pan stand-up comic, but for reasons I will explain later I didn’t get the joke and so I took it to the local garage.

The mechanic listened to the healthy whir of the engine and said that unless the car had broken down there was nothing he could do. I pleaded that there was a genuine problem, and he promised that next time it materialised he would jump in his car and come and help. By then it might be too late, I thought to myself.

For a couple of weeks everything was fine. Then, on the morning after the launch party, I was returning the tables and chairs I’d borrowed from Domaine de La Brillane. Once again there was nothing, not even a rolling start down the considerable hill outside the vineyard could start the engine. This time the fault was permanent. I called the local garage and went straight to answer phone, the mechanic who’d promised to fly to my aid - this being Provence in August I shouldn’t have been surprised - was on his annual holidays.

We were without transport for a week (see photo above right for our solution) and a garage
which Rupert Birch, the vigneron at Domaine de La Brillane, described as “cowboys” repaired the car. They claimed that fuel wasn’t reaching the ignition, whereas my trusted local holidaying mechanic had thought the problem related to the starter motor. In any event the car now works, but for how long?

Usually the answer would be unimportant. We’d take the rough with the smooth, break down again and call the pick up company. But the problem is - and here’s the big announcement - that Tanya’s pregnant and we’re expecting a baby at the end of October. I can picture the scenario now - it’s a moonlit night as we emerge from our house to rush to the hospital. We both leap, or at least I do, into the car - this is already optimistic, because the locks are playing up once more - and I turn the key……