Jane tossed the phone aside, video done, taunt sent to the no-show. She shrugged off her jumper, the fuzzy beige coat following, revealing a white, tight-fitted polo top hugging her form in the dim cabin light.

Key in. Ch*ke still out, engine flooding hard, starter whirring over soaked cylinders, petrol fumes thick in the cabin. Frustration sharp; she had chosen this isolated spot for a reason, not to end up stranded alone in rural silence, fields empty and woods dark.

It didn’t take long, after a few attempts the engine finally caught with a ragged cough. But keeping it running proved the real problem. She adjusted the ch*ke quickly, tiny pulls, searching for that delicate balance where it would fire and stay alive.

Got it. Two-footed pedals, left slamming the brake hard, right on the g*s, revs held high to prevent another stall as she pulled away and the drive began.

She continued, leaving the main road for a quieter country lane through the British countryside rolling green fields, hedgerows tight along the verge, tiny quintessential English hamlets slipping past: st*ne cottages and weathered signs.

She reached a junction, a blind curve, needing the engine running properly to pull out safely. As she stopped, the engine stalled again.

Reluctant to run. A few tries she’s stalling at the junction, soon adjusting the ch*ke again.

Start and run, left foot firm on the brake, right on the g*s. She edged out slowly until the road was clear then away onto the main stretch.

She joined the road and soon turned onto another side lane cutting through a small British hamlet.

A straight section appeared and she cautiously pushed the ch*ke in, hoping things had settled.

They hadn’t.

Power faded and the car rolled to a halt on the flat road, blocking the narrow lane. Quiet, but exposed.

The routine returned: crank, start, stall. Crank, start, stall.

Frustration simmered. She knew the risk, too much ch*ke and the engine would flood again.

A brief start. Left foot on the brake, right on the g*s. Barely a few feet forward...stall.

She fought it, crank, fire, nurse it along.

Going.

Please keep going, she begged softly, foot pressing down as the car crept forward with almost no power, speed barely more than a crawl.

A few yards more, then silence again. The red warning light glowed accusingly.

Another try. She spotted a horribly muddy entrance ahead and coaxed the car into it, mud sucking at the tyres, at least she wasn’t blocking the road now.

She tried again in the safer spot, her foot hanging lightly in the open flats, slipping easily from the stripy bl*e shoe with each press, toes flexing as they worked the pedal.

Behind the wheel she sagged for a moment, short breaths, tension heavy in the quiet cabin.

She glanced anxiously around her surroundings.

Her face showed it all: brows pulled tight, lips pressed thin, eyes flashing with frustration.

The engine stalled again.

Under her breath she whispered,

I hate you, car!

Ch*ke again, the only option.

She pulled it carefully, turned the key.

Crank. Fire.

Don’t you dare stall on me. Don’t you dare, she pleaded softly.

This time it held.

Back onto the main road she went, heading toward her final destination, the l*ttle engine rumbling unevenly as the exhaust trailed a faint haze behind her.

A long, exhausting day.

Grübeln Pedalpumpen Strumpfhosen/Strümpfe Jane’s Endless Automotive Agony (Part 4) mit C4s.com