I was driving down the street to pick d. up and give him a lift into town. I was aware the car seemed to be driving oddly, but I didn't worry too much about it, choosing instead to deal with it the way I deal with most problems: ignore it, and eventually it will go away. I was tootling down Little Lefroy Road when I noticed a woman on the other side of the street walking her dog. She looked at my car in horror and pointed.
"Oh," I thought to myself, "I must have a flat tire, which would explain the less-than-optimal driving conditions of my vehicle this fine morn. And yet the look of anxiety and fear on that woman's face seems oddly disproportionate to a flat tire. Perhaps I have inadvertently hit an old age pensioner and am dragging them along under my car." I eased the car along the streets of Fremantle - thinking only of the comfort of the hypothetical old age pensioner - until I got to k. and d.'s place, where I confirmed that I was minus one old age pensioner and plus one flat tire, and d. immediately set about changing it for me.
[I may be a single, independent woman who does as she pleases but it's still nice to have someone else around who will take care of these things.]
As it turned out my toolbox was missing. d. rummaged in k.'s car to find her toolbox and then in his ute to find his. Neither was any good. He came inside to explain this. "You see, mine's too big and" - gesturing to k. - "yours is too small."
"And yet," she said, "we still managed to have a baby."