Mother, please don't read this. You'll feel bad on behalf of your car.
I get a flat tyre. Actually, I get in the car and realise that I have a flat tyre but AHA! I was not the last person driving it because I'd made Melissa drop me somewhere the night before so it was entirely her fault. But the tyre issue remained. I don't think I've ever changed a tyre. And so, for the fourth time this year, I ring my new friends, the AA.
The AA chap nicely says that I even if I did know how to change a tyre, I wouldn't have been able to get the darn thing off because of how tightly the little bolty things were put on last time - he is jumping on his bolt-getter-offer as he says this so I'm sure he's not just making me feel better. Well, sort of sure.
And so life goes on.
But wait, there's still more. I have a bad night's sleep, go out for breakfast unwashed and with very fluffy hair and the top half my pjs (very pink I might add) still on, and when I get home, so very, very exhausted and full of Sweet Mama's best offerings, I back into the fence. Twice. With witnesses.
Blonde woman in pink shirt hits fence twice.
Yes! I strike another blow on behalf of feminists everywhere.
And throw one in for stereotypers for good measure.