My horn needs no oiling

I dreamt a few nights ago that I’d worked out the source of Hrududu’s longstanding oil-switches problem: there was something wrong with the radiator fan. When I opened the bonnet I was proved right: it was misshapen and huge, and the blades were made of stiffened felt, like a large novelty fedora.

In real life the poor love started repeating its oil-warning bleat, or perhaps rebleating its oil-warning peep, this weekend, just as we turned onto the roundabout bypass between Gloucester and the M5. I noticed that when brightybot used to have troubles with it, they were often prompted by us going round the Wolvercote roundabout on our evening car-share commute. The sloshing of some fluid, then… although a succession of garages have been unable to diagnose it, refusing as they do to drive round for an hour or so in over 26 degrees Celsius until the problem occurs.

The previous time that the route to Cardiff and back started to tax Hrududu, K. and I were able to stop between the two crop-circle road layouts on the A436: were, in fact, just thinking of stopping for our own welfare when simultaneously a parking area presented itself and Hrududu beeped twice. Pets pick up on your moods, you see.

But this time we had to struggle a good few miles, and would’ve been fine cruising at an engine-cooling 50mph in fourth had a white van not overtook us up the long, slow Little Witcombe hill, and then lost speed until we were both making a frantic 20mph in second gear. Beep, beep, beep, Hrududu complained, and we were sorely tempted to pass the message on.

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