Waffle waffle

So we wanted to have waffles, see. And that required ice cream, see. And for perfectly good reasons that would disturb the flow of my story here, we couldn't cycle, but had to take the car to the shops. Where we bought ice cream and returned to the carpark, which [remember this: it will be a key point later on] was cold, damp and wintry.

Geekman pats his pockets. "Where are my keys?"
I peer through the car window. "I think that would be them."

They dangle at us gloatingly.

My first cunning plan is to go back into the supermarket and buy a coathanger. Our car is infinitely break-into-able.

But the supermarket only has plastic ones. And nothing else remotely approaching the sort of wire I need. So I go up to the counter.
"Excuse me, do you have wire coathangers?"
"Yes, in aisle two."
"I just looked there, and you only have plastic."
"Well that'll do, won't it?"
"No, I need wire. It's for breaking into a car."

Then I realise I probably shouldn't have said that. I try to look nonchalant as I scurry back to the cold, dark carpark. (Did I mention that it was damp? And cold?)

We think about calling Weekend_Viking, who no doubt counts breaking and entering among his many useful life skills, but then realise we would have to share our waffles with him as a reward. Geekman doesn't like to share his food.

Then I remember the AA membership I got as part of a free-membership-for-people-under-the-age-I-used-to-be deal. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner, since I've called them out three times this year already (for breakdowns, not lock-outs), and they are no doubt rewriting the free membership deal as I speak so that it specifically excludes people like me.*

The only problem with this new cunning plan is that the AA phone number is written on a piece of paper in the glovebox of the car. Which would be, you know, the locked thing over there in the cold, damp carpark. Well planned, StyleyGeek.

So, too chicken to brave the supermarket girls again, I try the fish and chip shop next door instead.

"Hi!" I say to the cute-ish guy behind the counter. "I was hoping I could borrow a phone book. I need to call the AA."
"Uh, okay." He hands me a phone book and as I turn to the index I realise my mistake.
"Except... it's not called the AA in this country, is it? It's the... the... dammit. What's it called?"
He's looking pretty blank too. "So you didn't mean the Alcoholics Anonymous, then?"
"No! The ones who come and do that thing for you with your car when you, you know, do the thing, on the side of the road, where you aren't going anywhere, because you..."
"Did that thing?"
I'm explaining myself perfectly coherently, but it still takes him a while to get it.
"Oh, the NRMA. I've got their number right here. Good luck..." Then, as I walk out the door, he adds in a quieter voice, "...with your alcohol problem."

So now that the AA men who are not AA men have been and gone with the wire coathanger of doom, and Geekman and I are no longer stuck in a cold damp carpark, I am going to alternate between gorging myself on waffles and coffee, and cringing with embarrassment.

Curse you foreigners and your funny way of talking.

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* Who are people like me? I've often wondered.