Now, I consider myself to be a ‘lucky’ kind of dog.
Dad on the other hand, is the type that could put a molar underneath his pillow at night, and awake next morning to find that the tooth fairy had not only forgone leaving so much as a shekel in its place, but had also nicked his wallet, peed on the carpet and then made off with his bottles of finest malt whiskies….
However, after the disasters of last months trip to the Outer Hebrides, surely, but surely nothing could go wrong with just a wee run down to Glencoe, to do Laochs first Munro, the bonny Sgurr Elidgh Mor, which happens tae be one of Dads favourites.
So….off we set early Friday evening in high spirits.
About 50 miles into the trip, Dad noticed the windscreen wipers started moving slower than Brexit negotations, followed by the rev counter packing in…then the speedometer…then all the warning lights coming on….(and just as quickly fading).
Panic started to set in….and sure enough, 13 miles before Glengarry, 77 miles away from home…at the main junction that routes you tae either Inverness, Fort William or Kyle of Lochalsh, on a narrow bridge, in middle of the road….the Blazemobile died.
The alternator had given up the ghost. So, there we were, stuck, blocking the bridge, when a car drew up behind us and started giving Dad abuse for having cut off the arterial highway, South, East and Westbound.
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