I happened to recall the time I did this, just now, as I was planning a trip involving said airport.
Here (and for sake of a wee bit of book promo) is a short extract from the second book in my trilogy 'Staying out of the Midday Sun' based on my wrong fuel plight. Interestingly my mother was treated to a barrage of swear words that even I didn't realise I knew.
"I think we should fill up," said Holly as a service station came into view on the motorway. "It's much cheaper in Spain."
Peter pulled in and Holly filled the tank, revelling in the view of distant mountains while the fuel gauge clicked. She paid and they joined the motorway again.
About three miles down the
road the car started making odd hiccuping noises, then juddering violently.
Holly had a sudden flashback of the petrol nozzle. It had been green — unleaded
petrol. "Jesus fucking H Christ, I just put the wrong fuel in the
car!"
"What shall I
do?" said Peter, gripping the steering wheel tensely.
". . .I don't know.
I never did this before, did you?"
"It would be
difficult on a bicycle."
The car kangerooed along; another garage came into sight.
"Pull in!"
shouted Holly. Peter swerved in and screeched to a stop, Starsky and Hutch fashion. They went to the shop, tried French and English but blank looks
prevailed from the hairy-looking attendant.
Holly frowned at Peter. "Can't you speak any Spanish?"
"Only, dos cervecas
por favor."
Holly tried again,
speaking in an idiotic slow mixture of language and gesticulations and
presenting a sketch of an empty fuel gauge. The man brightened and in turn drew
her a picture of a cloud and a wedge of emmental cheese. The shop was suddenly
full of a stream of lithe young German men buying lager and porn. Holly's
plight was forgotten.
They went to the next door café and
tried phoning the insurance's breakdown company. After many attempts
Peter reached a real person who insisted on putting him through to an English-speaking
advisor.
"Ah, yes, err, I, ow
you say, is happen to my muzzer, five ears in ze passing."
"Look, can I be put
back to the French advisor I was speaking to?"
"But, I muz elp you,
eet iz impo . . ." Then there was silence.
"Shit, the mobile
died," gasped Peter. "Now what?"
"Pay phone
over there," said Holly. The machine chomped its way through euros while
Peter paced as far as the telephone cord would allow.
"Three hours, is that
the soonest? okay, merci."
"I thought they would
just siphon the fuel out, like they did when I lived in Peckham," said
Holly. "Didn't realise they would have to send a tow truck out."
Eventually, the truck arrived. A
tanned man dressed in shorts and Johnny Hallyday T-shirt jumped down from the
cab and expertly moved the car onto the ramp. They drove back over the border
to the nearest French town with a registered garage. The owner came out smiling
wryly. He had obviously seen it all many times before.
"Er . . . ça va coûter combien, environ?" asked
Peter, nervously, waiting for the noncommittal shrug.
"Moins de deux cents euros monsieur."
"Less than two hundred," said Holly. "How much less?
Three cents, thirty euros?"
"Well, we are rather
between a rock and a hard place, aren't we?" smiled Peter. "It can be
part of my birthday present . . ."
"I'm sorry. So stupid
of me."
"It could have been
worse, the other way round . . . diesel into an unleaded can be a write-off
apparently."
"I bet this
establishment makes its living from twerps getting their car's stomach pumped,
being just over the border," observed Holly, a little later, as they sat
in the sun outside the café next door.
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