The car thought otherwise. Tuesday morning, halfway back home down the M4, there was a loud bleep. “What’s that?” said my passenger. Once upon a time I’d have said something like “read the fucking display, you silly cow,” but she’s 89 and old Yorkshire, and that wouldn’t do. So I just said “seems to be an engine fault, power reduced”, because that’s what the fucking display said, and drove on.
The garage wanted to know if the display was amber or red. I was pretty sure it was amber. “Probably nothing serious, then.” I thought eh? Engine fault? “But you’d better bring it in.” Well, that had been my plan. “Next Thursday?” “Day after tomorrow? That’s fine.” “No, next Thursday, not this Thursday.” Ah. Of course, when I’d restarted the engine, the engine fault had somehow gone away and the power had come back. “Probably a computer glitch.” (That’s where the title of this post comes in, uncapping a gusher of philosophical speculation.) “What about long journeys, then?” “Probably best not.”
So here I am in a warm house in Reading, rather than a freezing caravan in Wales, regretting it. The wonders of modern technology.