The Pop-Up Book of British Mice
I was interested to read that James Bond’s Aston Martin DB5, expected to fetch more than $1 million at auction next month, wasn’t always reliable . . .TWITCHING the Aston through the rain-slicked roundabout, Bond floored the bespoke Zwillinger throttle beneath his James Lobb loafer, took off down the long Chippenham straight, and began to close on Goldfinger’s Testarossa.
It was at that instant that his race-tuned ear picked up the tink-tink-tink from deep inside the pedigree bowels. It became a tonk-tonk-tonk. The car lost speed. Bond cursed, swung into a fortuitous BP forecourt, sprang out and threw up the bonnet. A small overalled man appeared beside him.
“Know what that is?” said the mechanic, peering.
“What?” cried Bond, relieved.
“Smoke,” said the mechanic. “You see a lot of that in my job. You get to recognise it.”
“How long would it take to fix?” said 007.
The mechanic looked at his watch. “Twelve days,” he said, “give or take. I am on the pumps till Tuesday week, due to Norman being in Doncaster with his Auntie May’s funny turn. He is her only heir, narmean?”
“Leave the pumps!” snapped Bond. “This is a national emergency.”
“Leave the pumps?” cried the mechanic. “You cannot leave pumps, son. You got to watch ’em every minute. They are like children, pumps.”