Oh dear. Yes­ter­day I did some­thing silly. Very very very silly indeed. Like on a scale of, say, instruct­ing Geeklawyer on a crim­i­nal case, instruct­ing Vic­to­ri­an­Maiden on an intel­lec­tual prop­erty case or instruct­ing Ruthie. Yes, as bad as that.

Geeklawyer pulled up to a petrol sta­tion on the Ter­ri­ble and inex­orable Wrath of God and filled up. Unfor­tu­nately the lit­tle black nip­ple he chose to sate his petro­leum love deliv­ered not the mater­nal juice of auto­mo­bile good­ness but the oily death. Yes diesel.

What a cock.

After a three hours of wait­ing, Geeklawyer’s favourite RAC motor­cy­cle spe­cial­ist (who knew him already) arrived and drained the tank (in con­tra­ven­tion of nor­mal RAC rules it must be said) and the fuel injec­tor of diesel and replaced with petrol. There fol­lowed then much belch­ing of black smoke and, from Mr RAC man, the instruc­tion to get through sev­eral tanks of petrol as soon as pos­si­ble. Oh, all right then.

Geeklawyer explains this by way of momen­tary inat­ten­tion, the tem­po­rary IQ of a cop­per and the pos­ses­sion of an LDV Con­voy Diesel van. Ooops.