It’s 3:30 on a Friday afternoon, and you’ve got a meeting at 4 across town. You’ve just pulled onto the freeway and you’re bracing to start some of the most artful traffic dodging ever there was.
But something glitters in the corner of your eye… a familiar and unwelcome glow that you’re certain wasn’t there a second ago. You reluctantly glance down, knowing what you’re going to see, and being afraid of that knowledge: the fuel warning light.
Some hasty inner monologue ensues… you glance at the needle on the fuel gage, and try to do some mental maths: 1 degree = 5 kilometers? You bloody well hope so.
It’s peak hour… there is only just enough time to get where you’re going, assuming the gods of traffic and weather are smiling upon you. Trying to stop at a petrol station will add at least 15 minutes to the trip – 15 minutes you don’t have.
So you floor it, and hope against hope that the few remaining drops of motion-lotion will be enough to see you through.
You’re half-way there when the needle drops off the bottom end of the little white line… but she’s still going, so you keep at it, even though you know you’re asking for trouble.
That’s where I am now. Two days into a week of 12-hour working days, and over an hour left of the day. The nasty cold I’ve picked up has been like a leaky fuel-line and my gauge dropped off the bottom end hours ago.
My brain is sputtering and my eyes trying to force themselves shut. I don’t know how I’m going to get home.
The only beacon of hope I have to head towards is the knowledge that the Coolest Girlfriend in the Universe is waiting for me at home with a hot meal and all the love I need to feel better.
I just hope I make it that far.