I WAS driving along in the pouring rain, when I suddenly became aware that I couldn't see a blasted thing. It was like trying to peer through a shower curtain. Either my windscreen wipers had packed up or I'd burst into tears for no apparent reason.

I immediately stopped the car and dabbed at my eyes. They were dry. It had to be the wipers, then.

I climbed out of my jalopy and darted into the nearest pub.

"Can I use your phone?" I asked the landlord. "I need to ring the AA."

The landlord started to hide away his stock of spirits.

"Not that AA," I said. "The other one."

The landlord pushed the phone towards me and I stabbed at the dialling buttons without recourse to the telephone directory. With my track record of duff car ownership I knew the number of the emergency breakdown service by heart.

The woman from the motoring organisation asked me for a description of my motor.

"It's a metallic blue heap of junk which I regret ever forking out seventy-five quid for."

"You bought a car for only £75?" asked the incredulous voice at the other end of the phone.

"Well, the asking price was £470 but the owner said he'd accept the nearest offer. When I mentioned £75 he snapped my hand off and giggled with glee."

"I see," said the woman from the motoring organisation. "And what exactly is the problem with your vehicle, sir?"

"Everything," I sighed. "But the latest problem is my windscreen wipers. They won't wipe because they've fallen off the windscreen."

"And what is your address, sir?"

"But my car isn't outside my house at the moment."

"What! You paid £75 for a car and you've managed to drive it somewhere? It must be a miracle."

"No, I think it's an East German model. I can't really be sure because the maker's badge fell off first time out."

"So where is the current location of your vehicle, sir?"

I put my hand over the phone. "What's the name of this pub?" I whispered to the landlord.

The landlord glared at me and started furiously wiping non-existent wet rings from the surface of the bar.

"What's this address?" I repeated. "Look, I've got a woman at the other end of the phone who's desperate to send out a mechanic to rescue me from my current motoring predicament."

"Shan't tell you!" the landlord snapped.

"Give me a clue," I pleaded. "Is it The Red Lion? The Blue Bull? The Yellow Banana? The Purple People Eater? Give me a break here."

For the first time, I surveyed my surroundings. The pub seemed strangely quiet. But what was more strange was the total absence of tables and chairs -- there was just a sofa and two armchairs. And sitting on the sofa was a woman clutching a child to her bosom. They both seemed very edgy.

Realisation dawned. "This isn't a pub, is it?" I asked the landlord.

"No," said the landlord.

"And you're not a pub landlord, are you?"

"No," said the man who was no longer a landlord.

"So where the hell is this?" I asked mystified.

"If you must know this is No.10 Acacia Avenue. You are currently standing uninvited in my front room and what's worse, you are frightening my wife and child."

I desperately tried to think of something comforting to say. "Nice cocktail bar," was all I could come up with.

"Excuse me, sir, but my shift finishes in seven hours," the emergency breakdown woman at the other end of the phone butted in.

"Er...I'll ring you back," I said and hung up.

I started pacing up and down the front room of the stranger's house.

"I want you to know that I'm a nice person really," I announced to the stranger's family. "And I further want you to know that this unfortunate state of affairs is not going to develop into a hostage situation."

"Then put the weapon away," the man said.

"Weapon? What weapon?" I glanced at the object clenched in my fist. "That's no weapon -- it's a windscreen wiper."

The man shook his head. "Little did I know when I moved up here to a new job that I'd be relocating to the Land of the Nutters."

"That's not fair," I pointed out. "People in Bolton are on the whole very sensible -- they're not all like me. Do I suspect from your accent that you're from the East Midlands? Northampton perhaps?"

"A bit further south," the man said. "A town called Milton Keynes."

"Then you won't regret the move," I assured him. "And may I say once again that you have a lovely cocktail bar."

"Thank you," the man said. "May I offer you a drink?"

"That's most charming of you," I said.

"Well, I think we need something to break the ice."

"I find that bashing the cubes with a small hammer does the trick."

"No, I didn't mean...oh, never mind."

"So what do you do for a living?" I asked.

"I'm in computers."

"What an amazing coincidence. Me is a journalist and I use a computer, too. In fact I have my own mouse."

The man went behind the bar. "So what would you like to drink? Can I fix you a screwdriver?"

"No, thanks. But if you could lend me a screwdriver I'll go outside and fix my car."

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.