If the cap fits

Our village, crime capital of Oxfordshire! I’m not joking: since we moved here the car’s petrol has been siphoned. I came to it yesterday morning to find drops of fuel spreading like infinitely thin jellyfish near the back of the car, but failed to twig what had happened and drove merrily to work. I blanched at the alarmingly low fuel gauge on the way home, though, and turned into the horrid Tesco garage round the corner, lifted the flap over the petrol cap and—oh. Where once there was a cap there was a hole.

I suppose I could’ve left it at the last garage I visited—although they’ve had nothing handed in—and the drops could have been spillage, but there were no such drops this morning despite there still being no cap. Lord knows what they did with it. Couldn’t they have just replaced it, like respectable hooligans? I suppose I’m just fortunate my tank wasn’t filled with sugar by a hoodie.

The milk of human kindness still exists in some form, though, as Charlbury Garage let me take a replacement cap home for free pending it actually fitting. It did, you’ll all be relieved to know to the point of hot tears.

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