The misfuelling prevention device

It’s not losing your 3 year warranty through misfuel

It’s not losing your 3 year warranty through misfuel

It’s your daughter missing her dream job interview.

They say bad things come in threes. My daughter always wanted a job working on a car magazine or TV motoring programme. We persuaded her to go to university where she gained a first in public relations and marketing. This included a work experience slot on an automotive publication where she fitted in really well and earned a deserved reference. She applied there first when she began the job application process but she also applied elsewhere. Imagine her delight when she was offered a dream interview for a researcher role on a motoring TV show! We were all pleased and I offered to drive her to the interview rather than let her catch the train. I wish now she had gone by public transport.

Everything was going so well – we were halfway to her interview, making good time when we decided to stop at a service station for coffee and a bite to eat. We then went to top up with fuel when she started screaming that she had left her CV, portfolio and the show reel she produced as part of her dissertation in the briefcase under her seat in the cafeteria. She ran from the fuel station back to where we had been sitting. I must have grabbed the wrong fuel pump – as I watched her running back to get them – and put the petrol fuel nozzle rather than the diesel nozzle into the fuel inlet pipe of my tank. I was worried that someone may have taken her case and her telescopic umbrella was just not protecting her from the rain.

I misfuelled according to the rescue-recovery man, pumping litres of petrol into my diesel tank. Threes. One – I’ve misfuelled and therefore blown my warranty. Two – her briefcase with all her irreplaceable work has gone missing. Three – she’s distraught, soaked through and won’t make it to the interview because the car has broken down or, to be more accurate, I’ve broken the car by putting petrol in it. She can’t believe that her dream job may remain just that, nothing more than a dream. I keep telling her that they’ll understand but she is inconsolable, saying that a TV car show would never offer the role to someone whose mother misfuelled. What can I say or do? I’m really sorry that I am guilty of misfuelling. It just happened without my realising. Come on, lots of people must do it, surely? The recovery chap reckons that more men than women misfuel, but she’s not interested.

He says that he read a survey by one of those rescue organisations that clearly said that women misfuel less often than men – who would have thought it? Maybe I have helped to balance the statistics?

I feel so daft and helpless. I don’t care about the warranty I’ve lost through the misfuel, I don’t care about having to call out a rescue man. I don’t care about the fuel I’ve just wasted. All that can be sorted. I care about the wasted time. I care particularly deeply that I may have ruined my daughter’s career prospects – what’s that worth? I have wasted all her hard work studying for a degree to help her secure a dream job – at least that’s what she is telling me and I can’t help but agree with her. And all because of some petrol in my diesel tank. Who would have thought that a misfuel could lead to so much damage, both to the car and my daughter’s future?

The Diesel Head Misfuelling Prevention Device

The Diesel Head
Misfuelling Prevention Device

Oh no, there’s a fourth thing – what will her father say? Actually, no, I don’t care what he will say. He won’t be able to complain because, as I tell her, it’s his fault for insisting that my new car is a diesel rather than the petrol car I’m used to. I tell her this and she agrees. An economy drive he called it, grinning all over his smug face at his clever pun. Buying a diesel really has saved us a lot of money, I don’t think. You don’t need a performance car he told me. A diesel runaround will suit you just fine. I’ll give him a performance. I wish the forecourt chap would shut up. It’s no good telling me there is a misfuelling prevention device, I don’t have it!

Yes, I know it was me that pumped petrol into my diesel tank, yes I know it’s called a misfuel and yes, I know my husband didn’t make me do it, but what has that got to do with anything? He bought this diesel four door white car when he knew I had my heart set on a petrol coupé like the car Mrs Jones has across the road, but in black. It’s his fault for being mean. He really is in trouble. We’ll never forgive him for this.

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