A wheel story

 

Once upon a time service stations had workshops attached to them. If one needed something mechanical, one could go to the workshop and a bloke in greasy overalls would come out, wiping his hands on an oily rag, and say something like, "G'day, mate/love [strike out whichever is inapplicable] what can I do for you?" Whether one's problem was black smoke emanating from under the bonnet, or a tyre that needed pumping up, the mechanic would deal with it.

Now service stations have retail assistants who stand behind virus-and-bullet-proof plexiglass and sell petrol, drinks, snacks, dodgy pies and sandwiches and who have likely never lifted the bonnet of a car or hefted a spanner. If one wants something mechanical done, one has to go to a Mechanical Repairs Centre, which has a reception area with comfy chairs, wifi, a big screen TV, a water cooler and a receptionist whose job it is to keep the general public as far away from the mechanics as possible. One has to book in online before they'll even talk to you and even then, you don't get to talk to an actual mechanic.

This is the saga of my wheelbarrow tyre. It's spring and the garden is in dire need of some work. I needed to shift some soil and garden clippings but the tyre on the wheelbarrow was flat and the valve for the tube had slipped under the rim of the wheel. I needed someone with a decent tyre lever to remove the tyre, find the valve and slot it back through the hole in the rim. We're not talking rocket science here. We're talking a flat tyre. A two minute job for someone with the right tools. Unfortunately my bicycle tyre levers are lightweight and simply not up to the job, so I had to find someone with the right tools.
 
I took it to the hardware store down the road but their workshop was closed so they suggested I take it to a mechanic. 
 
Mechanic's receptionist: The boys are really busy at the moment, but leave it with us and we might be able to get it done this week. (This was Wednesday) 
Me: It will only take a couple of minutes.
Receptionist: They can't fit it in today. Maybe tomorrow. We'll get back to you. 

I went back the following day, my tyre was precisely where I'd left it, so I retrieved it and took it to the workshop at the hardware store in the next town. 
 
Receptionist: Can you leave it with us? The mechanic won't be back 'til next Tuesday.
Me (looking at the three large men in hi-vis shirts milling around in the workshop): It doesn't need a mechanic. It just needs someone with a good tyre lever and a bit of muscle.
Receptionist: Yeah. Can't do it til next Tuesday.

{{{{{sigh}}}}} 
 
Then a thought! My friend's husband, D, would have the right tools and he'd do it in two minutes flat. He's helped me out before when I've needed technical or mechanical help. Phoned my friend.
Friend: Oh, sorry Rob. D's gone fishing this week. He'd have the right tools but they're all in his toolbox on the ute and that's the car he's got with him.
 
I mentally ran through all the other people I know who would be able to assist, but they were all either at work, away or live too far away and really, I was sick of fart-arsing around with this thing. Just bloody do it.
 
Back to base and an analytical look at the problem.
 
The moral of the story (because all good stories have morals): 
What a man can do in two minutes with the right tools, a woman can do in slightly longer with a good kitchen knife, a screwdriver, a bit of initiative and a colourful vocabulary.

 


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