How a scooter excursion almost ended in double divorce

Accidental Tourist David Alston recounts an ill-fated couples’ jaunt into the English countryside

With Easter Sunday providing the first sunny day London had enjoyed in months, two enthusiastic couples set off on two scooters from the murky depths of their basement bedsitters, bound for the Weald of Kent and points south, petrol in tanks, spring in hearts etc etc.

The Expedition was a huge success until somewhere near Maidstone when Scooter A began to make ominous spluttering noises, which I pointedly ignored, being devoid of any mechanical knowledge other than how to change the spark plug.

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This option was eventually exercised with feigned confidence, but proved to be a heroic failure.

Progress was therefore maintained at walking pace until the partners also began making ominous spluttering noises. The Expedition then attempted to seek solace at a roadside pub only to find it closed as it was by then after 2.30pm (this was in the bad old days).

Vicious complaints were made about English licensing laws by the two drivers while both partners' noises now became very ominous indeed and disparaging remarks were made about people who did not know a split-pin from a hair-pin.

Scooter A now refused to start at all and, after flex was borrowed from a neighbouring farmer, was towed ignominiously by Scooter B to the nearest garage where the staff displayed complete disinterest in effecting repairs or anything else for that matter ("It's a public 'oliday for Gawd's sake, mate.")

The Expedition was now at a complete standstill. Various suggestions were made by partners as to what we could do with our scooters and ourselves, none of them in the least bit flattering.

After a crisis meeting that would have done credit to any international summit for its inconclusiveness (other than to wait until the pubs opened and seek solace in strong drink, an option that was not exercised as the mind boggled at possibly having to face a "drunk in charge of a stationary scooter" charge), the recalcitrant machine was towed 15km back to Maidstone by Scooter B.

The partners were left on foot with instructions to hitch a lift or catch a bus and "rendezvous at Maidstone Station". On the scooter party's arrival at Maidstone it was found that there were in fact two stations.

It was now not "too soon to panic", but being pre-cellphone days, communication with partners was impossible.

The partners eventually turned up after three hours, having had to walk the whole distance to Maidstone owing to lack of public transport or public interest in proffered thumbs - and then going to the wrong station.

They were not amused. The men were too exhausted to care.

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The entire skeleton staff of Maidstone (East) were then engaged with the problem of getting two scooters and four grumpy people (some a great deal more grumpy than others) into the one small van of the next London-bound train. ("It's against regulations"; "It's more than my jobsworth," etc.)

Resorting to a timeless tradition, bribes were eventually offered and accepted and, suddenly, "jobsdone".

The journey back to London in the confines of the van was not punctuated by scintillating conversation.

Eventually arriving at Charing Cross Station after midnight, our partners were put onto the last Tube to Earls Court, promising never to venture out anywhere on scooters again, particularly with men.

The recalcitrant scooter was towed unceremoniously back to its garage.

All parties eventually regrouped in the aforesaid basement bedsitter and had hysterics. Our Easter eggs, offered as peacemakers, were summarily destroyed.

The following day the trouble was traced to the spark plug. My relationship with both scooter and partner was all but at an end.

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