Are knuckles best?

©  2007  Rose George

Given where I live and where my parents live, it is inevitable that I am familiar with the M1. I can almost recite all the service stations from London Gateway to Tibshelf in order (up and down), though Donington Park and Newport Pagnell always throw me. However, it took me about 36 years to bother to look on a map to discover why Watford Gap was nowhere near Watford (look it up) so there are obviously holes in my relationship with the motorway that need to be filled. Today I filled the hole that was shaped “Trowell services car-park, northbound.” Specifically, “Trowell services car-park, northbound; second row from the Moto cafe entrance, far right parking space next to the ticket machine that no-one uses.”

My car broke down. It is usually a trusty little car, though increasingly I cannot justify possessing it, as most of my travelling is on bicycles or planes. But as cars go, it doesn’t use excessive amounts of fuel (yes, yes, any amount is excessive), its hatchback is a Tardis (once it fit three dining room chairs and a sideboard, and it’s a Ford KA), and though it has been dented by dastardly drivers who do not leave their insurance details, and by little sods who left foot-shaped indentations on the roof, it has generally served me well. Not like my old Mazda which, after tomdr drove it over the Alps like Steve McQueen would have driven it over the Alps, developed a mysterious fault which mechanics in three countries failed to diagnose, and which ensured that I broke down on every trip, suddenly, though it was supposed to have been fixed. Eventually I gave it to a mechanic with my blessing and some schadenfreude.

But my Ka didn’t fail, until today, when it was courteous enough to break just as I was coming up to Trowell services. The battery light came on and the power steering stopped working, for those car nerds who care. Yes, I know it’s the alternator. Anyway after two hours in Trowell services - probably the reason I am being so verbose now - I was driven 10 junctions up the motorway by a young man called Russell. Russell preferred to keep the radio off “so we could talk.” And he talked. He told me about his Christmas trip to Nova Scotia, where he’s planning to move to soon, as soon as he gets a visa, so he can drive oil tankers and buy an £80,000 property which has three bedrooms, two living rooms and a barn. He told me, not very reassuringly - particularly as to hear me speak, he had to keep leaning over towards me away from the steering wheel - about the time when he was really into taking engines apart and putting them back together, and how one day he and his mate were “just doing cat and mouse on the motorway in Leicestershire” when another car joined in and ” we didn’t realise it was an unmarked police car, did we?” (presumably because that’s the point) and how after Russell overtook both the unmarked police car and his mate at 126 mph, he got his licence taken away for two years and had to do 200 hours of community service, which consisted of gardening and helping out in a churchyard, which was “quite nice actually,” and how he then gave up getting wasted and doesn’t do drugs and enjoys practical jokes and actually he’s trained in baking and cake decorating.

Pardon?

“I’m a trained baker and confectioner. With a speciality in cake decorating.”

I expressed some astonishment that there is such a thing as a qualification in cake decorating. He expressed some astonishment that I should be astonished. Cake decorating is a complicated thing. But his speciality is cheesecake. And he’s very good at bread. Having baked my first loaf two weeks ago, I asked for tips. He said you should knead it for 15 minutes “so you get muscles like Schwarzenegger”, let it prove for an hour or so, then take it out again and knead it some more.

I said, are knuckles best?

Well, he said, “some people think so. But I do it like this.” And he demonstrated in the middle lane of the M1 by taking his hands off the steering wheel and kneading an imaginary pile of dough with the base of his hands. Despite this we arrived at the garage five minutes before it closed, having done 75 miles in a flatbed truck in an hour without speeding and while getting some top baking tips. Russell said, “You’ve got me going now. I might have to bake some cakes for my mum.” And I will bake some bread, Russell-style, though without the steering wheel.