Limping Lagonda

 Today’s story is an anxious one. Ham’s Lagonda is not well. We worked on it last night, having received fresh instructions from the UK. The devilish (cap or no cap?, not sure) issue is that we haven’t diagnosed the problem. We know the symptoms, but without taking everything apart — which is not a great idea in the field and of course is in contravention of Cunningham’s Law (“don’t touch it, lest it breaks”) — we remain clueless (not fair), confused (better, but not right), in the dark (suggestive of the first, redolent of the second: it will do) about how to fix it.

The remedy last night was to pour engine oil into the cylinders and two-stroke into the petrol tank. It looked like a good plan when we set off this morning: not a fix, but at least the noise, which has been getting progressively worse for two weeks, stayed about the same — progress. Well, until lunchtime that is. Thereafter, the knocking became more persistent; louder and sharper. We nursed Ham along the remaining kilometres, going at a slower and slower pace. Would we get there? Eventually, we arrived at our hotel in Hua Hin. Having passed the Sheraton, the Anantara and a few other five-star hotels, we started to think we had lucked out. Hilariously, our Google route took us down a tight little road and, at first, I wasn’t sure cars were even allowed. My concentration was intense, focused thirty yards ahead only, to avoid pedestrians. I slowly became aware of whoops and catcalls. I allowed my gaze to look sideways briefly. Brief was what I saw, in the clothing department. We were driving down a lane that seedy old (and maybe young) men would know about. Think Reeperbahn in Hamburg, or Patpong in Bangkok (someone once told me about them, which is how I know the names).

There were many discussions when we arrived with Ham. Many theories. Much good advice, plenty of less good advice, and a load of old cobblers was uttered by one and all.

It remains unclear what decision will be made, but it’s fairly binary: Ham leaves at first light and drives slowly — really slowly — for the 1,000 miles to Singapore, or we truck it.

Two things will influence this decision: dinner (with red wine) and the arrival of the noisy one who replaces the eloquent, charming, caring and sensitive old school friend of mine, Mr Ed Mead. Still can’t remember the new chap’s name.