It was early morning a few years ago and I was driving my daughter to PLC.

My lovely wife (at home twenty minutes previous) – “I can’t believe you didn’t fill up with petrol last night because you were late for poker. You’ll run out now.”

My wife is from Barcelona, so she does a patronising tone even better than most Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) wives.

Me – “I’m not an idiot. Thank you, but I don’t need fuel management advice from a person whose car is empty every single time I get in. I’ll get petrol on the way.”

My daughter’s school has a long drive that circles the oval and there’s a drop-off zone for about four cars at a time. Dropping-off before the zone is strictly forbidden, so each morning we queue. I got to the front, my daughter walked away and clunk, moving one metre off the zone my car stalled.

Oh, CRAP.

Having completely forgotten about my fuel shortage immediately after having the “I’m not an idiot” conversation with my wife, I’m in my usual drop-off outfit – pyjamas, full-length Superman dressing gown and Ugg boots. My daughter every morning implored me to get dressed before driving her, but who in their right mind could possibly have foreseen this series of events?

The traffic was already starting to bank up behind me. I put on my hazard lights, got out and not taking my eyes off the ground, jumped into the passenger seat of the car who’d just dropped-off behind me (having already checked it was a dad, not some poor innocent mum). I’m a big bloke with a fully-fused spine and this was a tiny little sports car which for some reason had the seat moved all the way forward.

I could barely fit in, looked ridiculous with my knees squashed up against the dash, desperately tried to slide the seat back but couldn’t find the bar or button, due to my Superman gown getting all caught up. Eventually, I got the seat back and still could barely fit.

 

Me – “Hi mate.” I stuck out my hand to the stranger.

The bloke (shaking my hand) – “You’re the worst dressed car-jacker ever”.

So Keith drove me to the petrol station and by the time we returned with a little fuel can, the place was in utter pandemonium. The queue which we had to sit in must have been fifty cars long and went all the way back to the main road. Students were having to jump out in non-drop-off sections, people were getting out to see what was going on, everybody was furious, honking (and this is PLC – we don’t honk), yelling out windows as one at a time cars would squeeze past the idiot parked half-way into the drop-off zone. A true nightmare.

 

Keith dropped me off and I did the walk of shame to the front of the queue, holding my little fuel can up to show everybody that I am but a humble idiot, not an asshole who parks randomly in the drop-off zone. I began refueling in the midst of chaos, dressed as a pyjamad-Superman.

 

I am particularly hard to embarrass, but I had truly been plunged into the gates of hell itself.

 

All of a sudden two dads get out of their fancy cars and approached me. They were lawyer-looking and I assumed they were coming to help or possibly to have a bit of a laugh to aid a fellow dad in his moment of need. I was incorrect.

 

Blue-suited lawyer – “HOW THE FUCK DO YOU RUN OUT OF PETROL HERE? HOW IRRESPONSIBLE.” He was rather mad.

 

Grey-suited lawyer (seething) – “I HAVE AN EXTREMELY IMPORTANT DAMN MEETING THIS MORNING BUDDY!”

 

Me – “WELL BOO-FUCKING-HOO BUDDY!” Up until that point I had been humiliated by the whole incident, now I was angry.

There was no need for the lawyers to kick me while I was down. The honks and “MOVE YOUR CAR” yells continued around us.

Grey-suited lawyer (furiously) – “DIDN’T YOU CHECK YOUR GODDAMN PETROL BEFORE ENTERING THE GODDAMN SCHOOL GROUNDS??” He pointed right in my face.

Me (feeling incredibly flustered, but standing tall in my Superman dressing gown) – “Weeelllll lawyer, let me give you a few GODDAMN guesses to see if you can work out if I did check or not. And before you answer, here’s some GODDAMN clues. I’m standing here in my GODDAMN DRESSING-GOWN, looking like a GODDAMN idiot, with a little petrol can, topping up my damn tank with fifty people honking me and two lawyers getting up in my GODDAMN face! Now… do you think I checked my GODDAMN petrol level???”

Blue-suited lawyer – “I’m not a lawyer.”

Me – “LAWYER IS A GENERIC TERM.“

Anyway, I eventually got home, my 40-minute drop-off having taken an hour and 40 minutes. My lovely wife was still home, unusually.

My lovely wife – “Wow, that took you forever. The Highway traffic must be a nightmare. I was going to have another cup of coffee before I leave, but I guess I’d better get on the road if it’s that bad.”

To make my morning worse, I had plummeted into a moral quandary. My lovely wife is an accountant and works ridiculously hard. For her to be forced on to the road unnecessarily early, due to the “traffic” would be grossly unfair.

Here was a test of my character, my caliber… my very honour. I had to come clean and tell her I did forget her warning and ran out of petrol, I should have filled up last night and been late for poker, I blocked the drop-off zone for an hour, caused absolute chaos, jumped into some blokes car, got him to drive me to the petrol station and back, stood there in the Superman gown she finds so disgusting and got into an argument with two “lawyers.” Mia culpa. The traffic is fine, relax and have another cup of coffee.

My wife – “Traffic’s a nightmare, hey?”

Me – “It… took me a reeeally long time today, Honey.” She rushed out to work. I hung my head in shame. For quite a while.

 

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers