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The Mighty Mousetrap 1988 - 2000
Rust In Peace |
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Greatly Missed The Mighty Mousetrap, pictured in happier days outside what in my opinion is the most gloriously-named hotel in Leverkusen. |
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The Prologue:
The Mousetrap (Austin Maestro to those unfamiliar with the genre) was bought by me in 1996 and served me well until its semi-retirement in 1999. My lack of transport in Germany provided its second (and final, as it turned out) wind as it came over with me in January 2000 and carried me on trips to France, Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg as well as providing everyday conveyance in the Bundesrepublik. |
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An Autobahn Too Far: Being a sensible motorist, with only a passing resemblance to Mr Toad ("Poop-Poop!" - and you can take that however you like) I filled the petrol tank and checked the oil on the evening of Friday 13th October (strange, but true!) so I could make a reasonably early start on the morrow - for a flat-hunting trip to Darmstadt, some two-and-a-half Autobahn-hours distant - which I did (09:45 is reasonably early for me). And that's where the story really begins. Setting out with a song in my heart (Anarchy In The UK) and a gentle smile playing about my lips (probably wind) I hit the A3 Autobahn after only minimal delays in Dellbrück. For about half-an-hour the motor hummed and I didn't smell too good myself, when suddenly: "Hey up!", thinks I, in fluent Coronation Street, "We appear to be losing what could loosely be termed power; better find the inside-lane, Just In Case". Not a moment too soon, as it turned out: a grumbling noise commenced shortly thereafter; no sooner had I glanced around to check for stowaway wives than it was replaced/drowned out by the unmistakable sound of a rolling-pin being run round the inside of an immersion-heater spanner. Or knackered big-ends, depending upon your terms of reference. And that's where the story really begins. Stopped on the hard-shoulder (or Seitenstreifen, as they call it here - the things you learn!) I then used my Moby to call the AA and ask them for the number for ADAC. Blimey - you'd think they'd never heard of Germany! So much for their "International" pretensions. After approximately ages I was cut off - which was a blessing really, as it was sucking money out of my fone at an alarming rate. So I foned the Memsahib, explained the situation and asked her to call them and ring me back with the info. Which she did, bless her little cottons. And that's where the story really begins. So I called ADAC and evntually got through to the appropriate dept, gave them the story again and waited for a chap to turn up in a van and give the German equivalent of the Sharp Intake Of Breath and Shake Of The Head. Which he duly did, before getting on his radio and ordering a transporter, then zoomed away like an oily Lone Ranger ("Who was that overalled man?", etc). Half-an-hour later the transporter arrived, we loaded up and headed for their depot on the outskirts of Bad Honnef. Now, they (and I) were quite happy for me to leave it there and forget about it, but sad to say, there was rather more stuff in the car than I could carry and I was nowhere near a station - or anything much, other than the A3, which is a fat lot of good if you don't have a car. Of course, I could have hired one from the depot and brought it back the following day, which would have left me in a very similar position Geographically and Logistically. So I opted for transport back to Dünnwald. And that's where the story really begins. So we ventured back out onto the A3, heading back towards Köln and steamed along at a fine pace. Until the Stau (fine German word for "Traffic-jam"), of course, which cost us about an hour until the driver was able to take an exit and go cross-country for the last ten miles or so. It stood outside my flat for a couple of weeks, feeling justifiably sorry for itself, until a recycling-firm which would accept a non-German-registered car was located in the South of Cologne. (Thanks for your help, Green Flag!). It now rests in a corner of some foreign scrapyard which will be forever England. My advice to anyone wanting to scrap a non-German-registered car in Germany: Go and speak to someone else or I shall bite you. |
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The Epilogue: Subsequent inspection revealed that what had once been its engine was dripping oil and the tailgate was peppered with oil-spots, suggesting that some pipe or seal cried „Enough!“ on the Autobahn, to the ultimate detriment of the internal whirly-bits. As if you cared... |
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