Keys, a right headache

Headache? Tense, nervous, headache?

That was the question on those adverts, long ago. The answer was that nothing works faster than Anadin. Or a guillotine. Here's a tip: someone, say your overweight, high-blood-pressure, falling apart at the seams husband, for example, says “what's it mean when you've got a sharp, well-defined, stabbing pain in the back of the head? Just off to one side. Won't go away?” The answer that's required, that's willed with every nerve ending and synapse, the reassuring, comforting answer, is: “probably less than nothing at all. Take a couple of pills, relax. It'll go away in no time.” What isn't really wanted is a more professional, medically correct, but worrying answer. Like this:

ME: What's it mean when...headache...etc.?

BLISS: [Looking at the weight problem, sizing things up, taking my blood pressure with just her eyes, changing, miraculously, Superman-in-phonebooth-style into a white coat, stethoscope, and sensible shoes] Stroke? Mini-stroke perhaps.

Look, I know that's medi-speak, but putting 'mini' in front of 'stroke' is like putting 'slightly' in front of 'dead'. Or 'a bit' in front of 'pregnant'. I got in the 'or a brain tumour' before she could. I could see how it was going. FJ recently had a near-collapse walking around Romford and ended up in hospital.

“They've rebranded it” he said, on his mobile, still in the hospital, after I'd found out why he wasn't responding to phone calls “I've had a heart event.”

Keys – damn and blast them – part one

Will Penny and his family were on holiday, driving around France. They locked up the car and went off to eat, and returned to find that they'd locked their keys inside the car...

...I realise that's an olden-days thing: you were once able to push down the pushy-down thingy, hold in the door release button on the outside while shutting the car door, and there it was, locked. Before anyone even realised that the need to open the vehicle from the next county existed...

...they did what anyone would do, and started breaking into their own car.

The police arrived, they found out just how inadequate their French was, when under pressure and when dealing with slightly hostile policemen unhappy about their car theft figures. More police arrived. Eventually, but only after some emergency interpretation and Inspector Clouseau-isms / Keystone Koppery and the birth of one of those unforgettable anecdotes, and at least one near-arrest moment, things were sorted out, one of the policemen produced a tool from his car and deftly popped the door open.

Months later, we were playing volleyball. There was the double-whammy shot. A spike into the corner that involved winning the point and whacking the ball into someone's car. I rose at the net, leaping like a can of tinned salmon, and with that wonderful 'thunk' sound that signals good contact, got a decent spike on the ball and sent it into the corner. One bounce. Hah! It smashed into the bumper and front grille of Will's car. Cue big cheesy grin: “sorry mate” (I didn't mean it).

“Look” someone said, “ you've broken it. Something's fallen off!”

Will got on his hands and knees, and retrieved the fallen-off item.

“I don't believe it” he said.

He was holding a small, metal box, with a magnetic strip that had held it onto the bodywork, and inside were spare keys.

Keys – damn and blast them – part two

I lost the keys to the Volvo. In the sea. We were on a small, isolated beach in the middle of nowhere. We'd travelled light. All we had were some towels and beachwear. We posted MM in through the sunroof. I managed to hot wire the ignition, but not to override the steering lock.

The AA sent...well...The Simpsons have based Barney Gumble on what the AA sent. He arrived, about three hours later. Luckily an Italian family with a Winnebago took us in. Sunstroke had turned to hypothermia. I remember Barney swigging on a large bottle of what looked suspiciously like his own urine, clearly backwashing, and then offering me some.

He dropped us back at the chalet. The next day calls were made, faxes sent, and we went off on a long, difficult public transport round trip to pick up new keys from a Volvo main dealer. It was, to use the technical term, a right old kerfuffle.

Months, maybe years later, the Volvo needed a new radiator. The old one came out. On the bottom of it, in a small, metal, magnetic box, were the inevitable spare keys.