One day as I was leaving for an appointment, I noticed a flat tyre on my car. Not wanting to change the tyre on the sloping surface of our driveway, I drove carefully to the top of our road, parked and began to change the tyre.
As the local garbage truck passed me, I tried to not appear too desperate, and tucked my head down, concentrating on the job in hand. A couple of hundred metres down the road, I heard the brake being applied and the truck pulled laboriously over to the side of the road.
Three rather weighty guys swung down from the cab door, jeans worn low, caps pulled tight over grubby faces and rollie ciggies hung from the mouths of two. They formed a line across the road and swaggered, purposefully, towards me (trying to look casual), one with his thumbs hooked through his jean, belt loops.
In my minds eye, the vision played in slow motion and my three “heroes” sported cowboy hats and guns in holsters, to complete the image of a scene from Gunfight at the OK Corral. As they swaggered towards me, I had to hide my smile.
Despite being perfectly able to change a tyre, I stood back and embraced the role of the female in distress, allowing them to do their good deed for the day. I was rather thankful I didn`t have to get too dirty though.