I may have mentioned before that the boot of the Humber has been stuck shut for over two months. The last time I used it was to put an oil column heater in it to stave off those cold trailer Winter mornings. The heater, along with my excellent toolbox, has been stuck in there ever since, and the cold mornings are pretty much over for the year. The Humber Whisperer tried to open it. I tried to open it. I was becoming resigned to the fact that I was either going to have no boot, no toolbox and have to buy Lee a new oil heater or weld a hole underneath the license plate to free up the lock. (My father screamed like a girl when I floated the last option, and stated with renewed vigour that ‘there must be a way in, there must‘.)

All along I refused to let M touch it. He asked a few times, and I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. It was OK for me to trash the lock with a screwdriver, or the Humber whisperer to snap something essential as he poked around, but not M. He has a love/hate history with the Humber - having removed and reveneered the dashboard with proper walnut (that’s the ‘love bit) and then replacing the dashboard, but none of the heater switch handles, losing the little turbo wooden plug button and neglecting to refit the wooden door trims (that’s the ‘hate’ part). He also cut out rust and rebogged it after removing the back windscreen and dealt with other bits of rust elsewhere (that’s more love).

The thing was, I just didn’t want him to get frustrated with the boot and then force it and damage it. I already have a very healthy dose of self loathing about driving backwards past the gatepost with my door open, and I really don’t want that to spread and envelop him. But today I seem to have contracted some interesting strain of NSW north coast flu that Jen brought down with her and obviously spat into my beer on Saturday night. Grrr. …which is sitting nicely with some other symptoms that the local doctor suggested may be the onset of shingles… Gah. So I am in a weakened state, and when M offered to take a look at the boot this morning, I aquiesed - and then ran inside so I didn’t have to watch.

I’d only got half way through brushing my teeth when he came in, looking woebegone. It had taken him less than 5 minutes to get it open. He wasn’t even mad that he’d had to put up with me whining about it for two months and borrowing his tools, it was worse - he was sad.

“You don’t trust me to fix things. You don’t. I can build a whole boat and you still wouldn’t even let me try and help you with your car.” He looked stricken.

I felt like a very bad person. A bad partner. I didn’t even come up with an excuse. I just said I was very sorry. Very sorry. And then he made me feel worse by driving me to the doctors, buying a bag of oranges, squeezing me juice, making guacamole for lunch and pesto for dinner and putting out a plate of kiwi fruit and mandarines with instructions for me to eat them all. He has finally been able to head over to the shed and I am sitting here feeling garlic and orange juice and antibiotics whisking around my interior. Thank you M - you are worth more to me than a showroom Humber SuperSnipe and a matching egg shaped caravan, and I shout it to the Internet. I would have you over the yellow Wiggle any day.