No Fuel Like An Old Fuel

So there we are in Morrisons with the trolley overloaded as usual, and Mrs Farty says, "Do you think we can manage this lot on the bus?" Meh. She decides we can do retired upstairs neighbour (neighbor if you're Merkan) a favour (favor) . Rather than spend a tenner (twenty bucks) on a taxi, we'll call John to pick us up and pay him a fiver (ten-spot), which will more than cover his petrol (gas) money. Never mind that he's watching the Six Nations Rugby (like Football, but without the padding. Or the cheerleaders. Or the misleading name).

So we stand for half an hour in the freezing cold rather than hop into a waiting taxi, while John manoeuvres his way through the Embra traffic to the Gyle. Then, having loaded us up with the shopping in the boot (trunk...ok, this is getting tiresome now), he stops for fuel. The first pump's broken, so he hops forward a space, fills up and goes to pay. Climbs back in and announces that he's just filled up his diesel engine with unleaded. Nevertheless, instead of stopping there and then and draining the tank to prevent any damage, he drives us home. Now that's taking chivalry too far.

He reckons it'll cost about a thoosand poonds to fix the car. "And the one thing Andy said when he sold it to me was, 'Whatever you do, don't fill it with petrol'."