A most tiresome task
By Mary Schneider
Like the majority of women, I've never changed a tyre before. Sure, I've had a puncture before, but fortunately a man sitting in my passenger seat at the time - an obliging, muscular chap who immediately came to my rescue.

"You must watch me carefully," he said, as he sweated buckets trying to remove the stubborn nuts from my wheel. "Then the next time, you'll be able to do this yourself" I nodded appreciatively and watched him flexing his biceps. A few grunts and groans later, I noticed the veins on his forehead were beginning to bulge from all the pressure he was exerting on those little nuts, and I resigned myself to the fact that I would never be able to change a tyre on my own.

Like much knowledge that I've been exposed to over the years, I only attempt to retain those facts which, I feel, might prove useful to me further down the road. After all, there is no point in retaining the inside info on, say, how to stuff an octopus tentacle when your culinary expertise has never gone beyond opening a packet of instant mee and plunging it into a pot of boiling water for two minutes.

So when my niece, who was staying at my house at the time, noticed that she had a punctured tyre late the other evening, the thought of changing it myself couldn't have further from my mind. Although I could remember the intricacies of how to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre and how to carry out CPR, the basics of tyre changing had been relegated to the far-flung realms of my misty memory.

Without thinking I telephoned a male friend. As soon as he answered the phone, and I swear this wasn't premeditated, I assumed a helpless, little-girl-lost sort of voice. As it turned out, though, he was busy and suggested I call a garage the following morning and have someone come over to change it. It's possible that I even pouted a little when I bid him goodbye.

A few minutes later, I attempted to flex my unresponsive biceps in front of my bedroom mirror. Surely, I wasn't going to let a lack of muscle power defeat me. What if my car were to develop a puncture in the middle of nowhere? Would I meekly resign without even trying to change my tyre?

I could imagine my search party's reaction upon stumbling across my dehydrated body some days later. I'm sure the sight of my dry lips, stuck to my mobile phone in a permanent pout, would be a delightful source of amusement for all at the scene. It was obviously time to have a little chat with my niece about our lack of tyre-changing abilities.

"Don't you think it's high time we learn how to change a tyre on our own?" I asked her a short while later, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

"Sure, why not?" she responded.

I instantly regretted the suggestion. There had not been the slightest effort on her part to persuade me otherwise. If I'd suggested that we pop into the kitchen and rustle up a light supper of "stuffed tentacle au gratin", she'd probably have also responded with: "Sure, why not?"

"Well, let's do it tomorrow morning," I said. "It ought to be fun, learning experience, don't you think?"

My niece smiled optimistically: "Yes, I think that's a great idea."

I wondered if I'd been that enthusiastic in my early 20s, bid her goodnight and headed upstairs to pump some iron.

The next morning found me on my hands and knees as I peered beneath my niece's car in an attempt to find the "X" that marked the spot where the jack should be positioned.

Finding no "X", I zoned in on what appeared to be an appropriate spot and positioned the jack accordingly.

"Are you sure that's the right place?" asked my niece. It was obvious that her enthusiasm had waned slightly in her sleep.

"Can't be anywhere else," I said, attempting to sound confident. At the same time, thought, a vision of the car's jacked up undercarriage snapping in two presented itself to me.

Just then, my 12-year-old strolled out in his pyjamas and volunteered to jack up the car for us. Once that was done, we tried to remove the nuts with the wrench thingy, but they wouldn't budge. We did everything short of blasting those nuts with explosives, but they stubbornly resisted our persuasive efforts.

My next-door neighbour, a helpful soul who'd obviously seen the three of us struggling by the roadside, suddenly appeared with a can of WD40 and kindly sprayed those stubborn nuts. They still wouldn't budge.

"I think the trick is to loosen the nuts before jacking up the car." I said, suddenly blinded by an insightful flashback.

No one contradicted this remark, so my son began jacking the car down again. Just then a young man stopped his car and came over to see what was going on.

Half an hour later, the tyre had been successfully changed, a simple task that had involved five people and a curious passing dog.

Later that morning, as my niece and I were returning to the house with the repaired tyre in the boot, I was struck with inspiration.

"How about we change another tyre, just to see how fast we can do it on our own?" I suggested.

I half expected her to say, "Sure, why not?" Instead, she laughed and said, "I've had enough of tyre for one day."

"Later, perhaps," I said.

Although I still haven't changed a tyre entirely on my own, it didn't take me too long to chuck that idea out the window.

In fact, the day I change a tyre just for fun of it will be the day you find a dish of stuffed tentacle au gratin bubbling away in my oven.

-END

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