Car trouble again. Not quite so dramatic this time, but a lot more expensive.
Un pneu creve.
And we didn’t notice in time to avoid wrecking the tyre, which meant buying a new one.
We found the local equivalent of Kwik Fit, and arrived there at about ten to midday.
I asked how much it would cost to replace the damaged tyre, and Monsieur retreated into the office to check with the computer.
Computer says bloody loads of euros, twice as much as they cost in blighty.
Anything cheaper? I ask.
Lots of chewing of teeth and discussions about how you have to have the same type of tyres on the front otherwise who knows what unimaginable disasters may befall you.
There is though, a cheap tyre already lurking on one of our back wheels.
How about swapping them round? I suggest, so the two cheap tyres are on the back and the two Pirelli A1 specimens are on the front?
He accepts that might work, peut-etre.
So how much is a cheap one? I ask.
More teeth sucking.
“Je ne peux pas maintenant, il est midi,” he shrugs.
It’s lunchtime, and he can’t consult the computer until after 2pm, or we’d be cutting into his stomach break.
It’s a cry that goes up across France a midi, and woe betide the person who expects decent service from someone who could easily check a price on a computer and be back in two minutes.
I know we’re on holiday, but really.
So we order the Pirelli and return the next day to have it fitted.
Next time we come we’ll bring a spare spare with us, then if we don’t need it we can sell it to pay for the fare home.