“Take your high viz off!” my husband hissed at me with a panic-stricken sense of urgency. About to squat behind a smattering of branches which gave a meagre leafy covering from the lorries and cars rushing along the M20, I laughed and was grateful for his warning. It had been an hour since we had broken down (and donned our high viz jackets for safety) and I had no choice but to use the primitive outdoor facilities that the grassy slope offered. Had I not removed my high viz, my attempt at having a discreet motorwayside wee might well have been a delightful fluorescent show for passing drivers.
An hour earlier, our car had decided it had had enough after a ten hour drive through France. Exiting the tunnel onto UK soil, the battery light illuminated in red and then about 20 minutes later, the car started to lose power. Having just passed a sign warning of no hard shoulder for 8 miles, I quickly pulled into the emergency SOS zone, which conveniently appeared as if answering my silent panic.
After an immediate call to the Highways Agency via the SOS phone, we were soon contacted by our breakdown company who said it would be a five hour wait. However, after highlighting the precariousness of our location, we were promised an update within half and hour where they hoped to improve on the wait.
Our next thought was safety. The emergency lay-by was framed with a wall (about 6ft) which was edged with a metal rail. “I’ll give you a leg up,” my husband said. I looked at him amused as I contemplated the extra pounds and years my body had accumulated since he had last given me a leg up, but then I realised that he was serious. So after a joint entertaining effort of a clumsy lift and a few undignified heaves, we managed to climb to a safer place. Once up on the ledge, I looked down and wondered if I would ever get down again.
At first, our spirits were positive, but as we waited and waited watching an endless stream of cars and lorries race by, our energy began to flag. It was now midnight, our phone batteries were low and, although it was still officially summer, we were getting cold. We could do nothing but wait. With no improvement on the predicted five hour wait and with no updates as promised, we began to feel a little helpless as time slowly ticked by. We called again. The wait on the phone to the breakdown services was depressing. No answer. Kept on hold, I desperately hoped that someone would pick up but instead I listened to a chirpy automated voice on endless repeat suggesting that I opt for an electric car as my next purchase. My patience was running thin and my language was certainly getting worse.
As midnight came and went, we began to wonder if anyone would ever come and rescue us. Looking at my husband who was now wrapped in a double bedsheet that he had retrieved from the car, I felt angry with the breakdown company. We were stranded in a dangerous location and they had basically shut down all communication with us. An update of some sort would have been comforting.
Feeling irrationally sorry for myself, I looked up the number for the Kent police headquarters ready to call and spout off about human rights and the expectation of us having to potentially sleep on the side of the motorway. However moments later, I pulled myself together and steered away from my ludicrous self-pity as I pondered the plight of those who were homeless and genuinely had something to worry about.
Around 01:30, our saviour came in the form of a 26-year-old who drove a local breakdown truck. (His arrival was all thanks to the Highways Agency who had helpfully intervened and who were equally frustrated with the silence of our breakdown company.) Never have I been more grateful to see another human being and he didn’t even batter an eyelid when he opened our car door and smelt the waft of over-ripe Camembert which was quietly festering in the now warm cool-bag.
Chatting animatedly on route, this young driver shared his life story and was just the tonic we needed to take our minds away from the previous few hours – hours which had felt endless at the time but which instantly dissipated into the past as his stream of warm and friendly words filled the truck.
Next time maybe we’ll take the train.
Let Luce! 