A Shocking Story...

What Ho fellow Motorists and bon-vivants!

Yes, tis your olde Scribe, returned from a spell abroad. Well, actually a spell because of a broad, if I were to say using the vulgar American vernacular But the less said of that the better, especially since the matter is still in court and her father is a rather large imposing man. I was suspicious of him as a bit of a villain when he eyed me up and asked if I’d like a career in concrete…hmmm.

Anyway, it’s a tonic to be back and opening up the Mayfair flat again. Ollie Raggs. my faithful batman cum mechanic siphoned off some petrol from the neighbours - some chap named Barnato - and had the Singer running like a top. It wasn’t long before I could indulge in a little heavy foot work down the North Circular just like old times.

Well, not long after my arrival, the telephonic device started jangling off the hook and I got a call from Nora, wife of my old school mate Percival Blatter. ‘Old Slack Bladder’ we used to call him in school for reasons better left between him and his chamber pot. Anyway, Nora had heard the roar of the Singer as Olly and I had been scaring the milk horse one morning and simply had to speak to me. Of course the sound of a tuned OHC engine is a terrible aphrodisiac for the fair sex…a Singer engine in particular will get them running from all over.

Anyhoo, Nora was actually extremely distressed and could she talk to me about a very private matter. I was Percy’s oldest school chum and she could trust me.

Now Percey was never an outdoors type and I could never cajole him into purchasing a sports job, but he did liken to a very nice Singer Bantam Coupe. It suited Nora too and she drove it most of the time, which is where the problem started.

Seems she left the flat one morning to motor out to the country for a brunch meeting with the society hens. As you’d expect, the Singer started on the button and she drove off with carefree abandon. Well, stone me, if not a mile down the road than the Singer splutters to a halt! Infuriated she tried to restart it but it would barely muster a clicking noise. So there was nothing for it but to walk back to the flat and phone for assistance.

Upon entering the flat, she noticed Percy was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear the strains of ‘You’re My Kind of Girl’ being hummed slightly out of tune. Making her way upstairs she was shocked to find her husband wearing her panties and garters mincing in front of the mirror, complete in makeup and ruby lips. She ran screaming from the room in tears.

And now here we were in the Harrod’s tea room sharing a pot of Earl Grey, she dabbing her hankie to moist eyes...what did I think she should do!?

I was equally shocked and dismayed at what I had heard... for a start, I d replace the battery on the Singer and give it a jolly good service!

Silly Gal!

- Sir Nigel