The Saga of the Flat Tire

A couple of months ago, I flew back to England to visit my 103-year-old mother. On day three, I took a trip to town to buy some groceries. En route I ran over a pothole. There are a lot of potholes in England.

A few minutes later I arrived at Sainsbury’s car park and the car began to pull to the left. A teeth-tingling grinding noise emanated from the left front wheel. The tire was as flat as a pancake. What to do?

I looked in the trunk and saw a piddly little spare with barely two inches of rubber. I called the 800 number for Europadopa, the car rental company (name changed to protect the innocent) to ask for roadside assistance. After negotiating their automated system by pressing multiple numbers with multiple choices, I got a human being.