My sister has just been born and we are keeping out of the way. He took me on an ‘emergency’, where I ran around the huge telephone exchange, with it’s strange electrical smell and super slidey floors. I sat on the swivel chairs with headphones on listening to the speaking clock, spinning until I felt sick. Eventually, he reappeared saying something like, “All fixed, it was just the switch.”
On the way home we stopped at the Coach and Horses. I sat in the car. It was a white Triumph Toledo. I remember because it was a newer, more sensible car because we had a new baby. I had the window wound down half way and the knobs that indicated the doors were locked were down. Dad appeared, smiling and happy and handed me a coke, in a glass bottle with a straw in and a packet of Salt and Vinegar.
“Won’t be long,” he said tapping his nose, “Just got to see a man about a dog.”
I sucked the straw a bit too hard and the fizz went up my nose. He was back before I’d finished my crisps.
“Better stop and get some petrol,” he said.
We drove into the one way system at Sun Corner and took the right hand lane instead of the left. The radio was on and we were singing along to, “I’d like to teach the world to sing.”
We edged onto the forecourt. You always seemed to have to queue for petrol in the Seventies.
“Thirty four pee a gallon!” Dad spluttered. “Daylight robbery.”
It didn’t seem that much to me. I’d just spend 25p of my pocket money on a book of Milly Molly Mandy Stories (I was always a precocious reader).
“You don’t just buy one gallon of petrol,” he laughed then he made me work out what ten times 34p would be. I agreed, that did sound like a lot.
He liked this garage because it was self-service. He had worked in the airport when he was younger and although he told stories of a horrible, bully boss and how doing ‘bump and grind’ circuits always made him sick, he did miss filling up the planes with fuel.
While he was gone I read all the adverts on the forecourt.
“Esso Blue - for smoke gets in your eyes”
“Put a Tiger in your tank.”
When Dad got back the windows were all steamed up and I was halfway through the song about smoke getting in your eyes and full of questions.
“Why do you get smoke in your eyes?”
“Is a paraffin heater the round thing Aunty Sue has that I burnt my fingers on?”
“Why would you put a tiger in the tank?”
He was always very patient with my questions and would answer every one with a twinkle in his upturned eyes.
“It’s just an advert,” he said, “it’s to make you think that their petrol is like a tiger.”
“Stripey?”
“No, powerful.”
“Furry?”
“No, fast.”
“Oh, okay.” I tried to process that. “It’s a bit silly isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Does the tiger have a name?”
“I don’t think he does.”
“Because Tony the Tiger is Grrrrreat,” I said trying to roll my Rs like they did on the Frosties advert.
“You know, when I was at Stone I met the brother of the man who trains the tiger on the Esso advert in the pub. It’s a real tiger, not a cartoon version like Tony, so it probably does have a name. Raj or something, I’s guess. Anyway, he’s from Durham.”
Just as I was trying to process that information Dad started up the car, on the second attempt after pulling the choke out a bit further and a car pulled up next to us. It has a tiger’s tail hanging from the petrol cap.
“Daaaaad?”
“I can’t answer that question,” he said, rolling his eyes, “There’s just no accounting for taste.”
I thought I’d share that memory with you, as Boris Johnson announced that he’s going to put a tiger in the tank of the Brexit talks. Apparently, it’s not done and they are being a bit difficult about letting us have everything we want.
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