Delivered two aggy blondes* to Brighton Town Hall for the ceremony of Saturday's wedding (N.F.I. to that bit) in the hot afternoon sun. Kerbed the Saab lightly on arrival, and blew the front right tyre in almost cartoonish fashion. The Hell's Angels plotted outside pub opposite hall laughed and jeered over their lagers, as well they should at an oldish joker in an oldish convertible with three girls, who's just blown a tyre outside a wedding.

Jacking space conveniently situated outside Town Hall

The invited guests ran off in their finery as I set about accessing the diminutive orange spare wheel in front of the hall, and jacking up my car in full view if the emerging wedding party. Now here's the rub. No one fancied a poncy fashion stylist type would deal with matter swiftly, (didn't exactly relish prospect, but had no option), and although a straight forward job, garnered heaps of admiration just for coping mannishly in twenty minutes flat. Mental. Rightly or wrongly, a man sweating in sun, hands covered in oil, working a jack seems to do it for many women. Should be a standard move on a first date, as properly upped my man quotient for the rest of the day. I even started drinking pints instead of  white wine for the weekend to stay on (new) brand. Also had time to say congratulations to a few key wedding bods with a tyre iron in my hand instead of a bouquet.

A kindly chap gave me two wads of mechanic strength paper towels, which came in jolly useful, one under each Prada loafer as I sprawled on the pavement. Shortly after another offered me a go on his mobile mechanical tyre pump as he thought my tiny wheel looked dubiously flat. Burst tyre, manned up, and prevailing man love all round. Wheel craft should be on the the national man curriculum.

TS jacked right up.

* Stretch's mother and fiance

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