Man on the edge

Big-J is a man who likes to live life on the edge. On the edge of driving me into an early grave that is.

When we left for the airport, at the crack of sparrow fart last Saturday, we had travelled no further than a mile when his dashboard turned fluorescent red and pinged repeatedly in an alarming way. ‘Oh no’ said he, ‘it’s a flat’. We hastily detoured into the nearest service station to inspect the tyre. ‘It’s a slow puncture’ said he knowingly, ‘I’ll pump it up and it’ll be fine’.

I suggested that the chances were that the tyre would be flat after five days in Luton airport’s car park and that really, if we were sensible, we’d go home and swap his car for my slow-puncture-free alternative vehicle. But oh no, he didn’t want to do that. My guy only likes to move forwards, never backwards.

So, after five rain sodden days on the French Riviera (a place where it’s really difficult to do anything when the weather is very wet), and a long walk back through the aforementioned airport's car park, we found - and yes, you’re there before me - a totally flat tyre. Well, I had warned him and now I told him so, several times. Nightmare visions of having to call out the AA and waiting the obligatory three hours for them to arrive. ‘No, I’ll have to change it’ said Big-J with a show of complete confidence entirely for my benefit I’m sure as his last tyre change was probably back in 1973. Nevertheless, he brushed aside my enquiries as to whether or not he knew how to change a tyre or even how to unscrew the thief-proof wheel nuts especially fitted to the vehicle to prevent thieves (or hapless amateurs) from removing the wheels, as he rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt.

With real teamwork, reminiscent of Dunkirk, together we burrowed deep into the boot and spied an interesting looking small black box, about the size of two paperback books stuck together. “I think that’s a pump,” I said (actually, I’d cheated because the pictures on the box front showed quite clearly that it was some sort of pump). Imagine our surprise and delight to find that it was a dear little electric tyre pump which plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter at one end and screwed onto the tyre at the other before, at the flick of a switch, pumping in air and bringing almost instant relief and unbridled joy to both of us. High five!

But all was not entirely well. No, no, no. Four miles later, those now familiar red lights flashed as the pings resumed pinging, ‘Maybe it’s not such a slow puncture’ he said as we pulled onto the hard shoulder to pump up the tyre again.

Having narrowly avoided death by exhaust fumes or worse, moments later we were off again, homeward-bound when Big J uttered what I can only assume is one of his favourite lines (because he says it quite often) ‘… and now we’re running out of petrol’. This is what I mean by living on the edge. He likes to run the petrol right down to the last teaspoon before filling up the car. I really don’t know why. Is that a man thing? And I absolutely don’t know why he especially seems to like doing this when we’re driving abroad. In this particular instance, we were only four miles south of Luton and twenty from home with the prospect of a friendly service station looming large. I suggested that we take the opportunity to stop there to fill up the car – and pump up the tyre once more which might just get us all the way home without another hairy stop on the hard shoulder. Fortunately for him, he agreed. Had we been in deepest Croatia, he’d probably have wanted to drive on, in the spirit of discovery, until we found the service station after the one we knew was just about to appear or even try to eek out the petrol to get to the one after that. What is it about men that they seem to thrive on the danger and uncertainty of an empty petrol tank? (That’s me trying to be complimentary, plenty of other less flattering thoughts spring to mind here.)

We stopped, we took our fill of fuel and pumped in beautiful fresh air whilst managing to have a run-in with four burly bailiffs - but that’s another story. (Perhaps I should mention that this was pure co-incidence and nothing at all to do with us or our chattels.)

And guess who’s going to be taking the car to have a new tyre fitted tomorrow? Here’s a clue … not him.

Flying high

A couple of weeks ago, me and Big-J were sat having lunch with friends of his of some forty years standing; lucky friends who've found that the harder they've worked, the luckier they've got. As a Joanna-come-lately, I’ve officially adopted them as my very own bosom buddies - and we’re very close. ‘Are you going to Cannes for the property fair?’ said the friend (let's just call him The Don). ‘No’ we said whilst explaining that the property sector isn’t really in Big-J’s new client target vista just at the moment. ‘Well if you fancy a few days there,’ said The Don, 'I’ll give you a lift.’

We knew what that meant. We knew exactly what that meant and we were excited.

The Don has a private jet at his disposal and clearly had a couple of spare seats on the Nice to and fro. We thought about it ooh, for a nano-second, before biting his arm off. Who were we to turn down an act of such lavish generosity? It would've been rude. And as it happened, Big-J had been invited, by various contacts, to attend a couple of parties and events there so we knew it made sense.

When you show up at Luton’s private terminal it’s frankly very weird. Everyone’s shockingly nice to you. It's all plush carpet, tie-back curtains, leather settees and potted palms. They smile, they talk, they offer you coffee and biscuits and you park your car in the dear little space just outside so as you can see it out of the corner of your eye as you watch breakfast TV on the eighty-four inch plasma screen. There’s not a hint of queuing, pushing, screaming children or nasty niffs. It’s all just über civilised and very calm.

Halfway through your second coffee, a pilot appears to say that we’re about ready to go but please, no hurry, do finish your refreshments and then we’ll take you out. A large and comfortable car drives you the few yards to the door of the plane and, after boarding you choose your seat, one of six pure luxury leather arm-chairs that, at the flick of a switch, go backwards, forwards and swivel. The day’s newspapers and a selection of magazines are on hand as are cushions, blankets and an on board toilet should you get caught short. Twenty minutes into the flight, breakfast is served. To be honest, this is where it all got a bit stressful – to choose the double chocolate or the blueberry muffin? An impossible quandary. In the end, I opted for a portion of beautifully prepared exotic fruit but I sampled Big-J’s chocolate muffin because when you eat something like that off someone else’s plate, it’s not fattening.

The weather was clear and bright, the flight was smooth and sociable and on landing at Nice another car was waiting on the tarmac to transport us to the terminal where there was a dinky little, unmanned passport control point. This was where it all seemed to be going horribly wrong. We were told we must wait whilst they found an immigration officer to check our passports but, after a few minutes when no one appeared, our escort gave us that familiar French ‘shrug’ and took us through anyway.

The Don's driver dropped us off at the car hire point and it was there we parted company until a few days later when we all flew home again, same fashion, same style and still no immigration officer at Nice passport control.

It really is the only way to travel but back here in the real world, with a bloody great bang, I’m just dreading my next Easyjet bun-flight.