Caroline and I went out last Saturday evening. We agreed that we’d leave at 6.30 pm.
At 6.30, she wasn’t ready and at 6.40, I stomped off and sat in the car. After a few minutes, I manoeuvred the car so that when she finally did appear, we could drive off immediately. I waited…..waited…..and waited.
Some time, a lot closer to 7.00 than 6.30, she appeared, opened the door and sat down. I said nothing. Just as she was about to fasten her seat belt, she said, “I think I’ll need a coat.”
“No, you won’t,” I said softly, patiently, gently and calmly, “I’ll park outside the house when we get there and at most, it’s only a twenty yard walk .”
“I need a coat. Give me the keys, please.”
The door key is on a ring with the car key. I handed them to her and as she got out, a message appeared telling me that the key could not be detected. When she returned a minute later, that message had gone and we set off, 55 miles down the M1 to London.
We were going to a party. I reckon that the last party I had been to, other than a ‘dinner party’ was more than 45 years ago.
In some ways, this party was similar to those of my younger days, with people mostly standing around, talking and drinking.
The big differences were that nobody present was smoking; nobody was being sick; nobody had come hoping to “get off” with anyone and there was no deafening music being played.
My various health issues mean that I can’t stand for very long and I don’t drink unless I am actually thirsty. Consequently, after about ten minutes, I found a chair and hoped that people might come and talk to me. Fortunately, some did.
Under normal circumstances, I would have had a really enjoyable evening, especially as I met someone whom I haven’t seen for 20 years and found him as amusing, interesting and convivial as ever.
I also met a very attractive, obviously intelligent and successful woman who, thirty seconds after introducing herself, asked my opinion on Brexit.
Alarm bells rang. I was in North London, talking to a white, scholarly, middle class woman and I knew, with certainty, what her position would be but I told her mine, nonetheless.
We discussed things in a civilised way for a few minutes, when she said something like this:
“I feel I’ve a lot in common with the people of Europe and I see being part of Europe as a way of recognising this. I believe in bridges, not fences. I’m prepared to suffer the bureaucracy, the lack of sovereignty, the petty laws, and even allow the fat cats to award themselves huge pensions and perks so long as we can all work together.”
I reckon that she raised seven issues in that declaration and I fundamentally disagree with all of them bar one.
There is no common ground between Remainers and Leavers and therefore, in my opinion, there will never be an amicable solution to the impasse.
I wrote earlier that under normal circumstances, I would have had a really enjoyable evening. Unfortunately, the circumstances were not normal.
The tension between Caroline and me was almost tangible. People must have noticed. If they hadn’t, I may possibly have mentioned the cause just so they knew the kind of thing I have to endure.
We had arrived in Finchley at 7.50 pm and parked outside the house. “You’ll have to lock the car,” I said. “You’ve got the keys. Caroline felt in the coat pockets and looked in her bag.
“I haven’t got them. I must’ve given them to you.”
I told her she hadn’t and then, for half an hour, in pitch darkness and drizzle, we scoured every inch of the car and crawled around on our knees looking on the road and in the gutter in case the key had fallen out when the door was opened. The key was not to be found.
Eventually, we agreed that as we were there, we would go into the party but for no longer than an hour and then we’d get a taxi home. That would mean that on Sunday morning, we would have to come back and look for the keys in daylight.
Neither of us were in the mood for a party.
At 10 pm, I started trying to find a taxi. I was told that one of my fellow guests was a black cab driver. He said that he couldn’t take the job himself but he knew someone who would and it would cost £175.
I phoned a reputable minicab company that we’d used a lot when we lived in London and they quoted £160 - approximately. It could be more! However, as it was a Saturday night, they wouldn’t have a car free for at least an hour.
Uber quoted £63 and could be with us in 4 minutes. How can black taxis and conventional minicabs compete with that?
At 11.15 pm, we arrived home. Both of us were feeling slightly less angry than we had been and we were almost (but not quite) able to see the funny side of it. I retrieved the spare door key from its hiding place and opened the front door.
There, on the sideboard, directly opposite the door were the keys:
The keys that I had used to start the car.
That Caroline had used to get the coat that she didn’t ever wear that evening.
That had cost us a lost Sunday morning collecting the stranded car.
That had cost us more than £70.
This infuriating feature appears to be a characteristic of all keyless cars.
BMW and other manufacturers say that it’s a safety feature in that, although you can’t start the car unless the key is in range, the engine doesn't automatically switch off if the fob goes out of range.
That is to ensure that you're not suddenly stranded in the middle of the motorway if the key’s battery dies.
However, as we found out, it also means that you could drop someone off who has the key fob in their bag or pocket and then drive away and after you turn the engine off, you won't be able to start the car again.
On the BMW i3 owners’ Facebook page, I read of a driver who stopped at a service station after 200 miles and had to check into a hotel overnight to wait for his wife to come up on the train the next day with his car key that she had in her handbag.
I wandered around Wavendon on Monday, hoping to meet someone who’d ask if I had a good weekend.
