I had a very nice birthday: lovely presents and cards, pub lunch with colleagues and all of LJ wishing me well following my blatant demands for same. After work, I set off for Howard's place in Dorset.
On the A31 just after the Hog's Back, I felt the sudden surge forwards followed by loss of power that means your scooter's drive belt has snapped and you won't be doing more than another hundred metres or so of your journey.
The breakdown people said help would be on the way inside 90 minutes. After what must have been 89½ minutes, a lorry arrived and I requested to be taken to Dorchester, thinking that a late arrival with a broken vehicle would be better than no arrival at all. But the breakdown company wouldn't authorise recovery to my destination, only back home or to a nearby garage (which wouldn't have been much use at 9PM).
So I was deprived of a birthday weekend away, and spent my Saturday and Sunday moping. I also cleaned out the gerbil, hoovered the entire flat and spent as much of the remaining time as possible asleep. Oh, and of course there was Doctor Who.
Knowing that it was all my own fault as I should have replaced the belt a thousand miles or so ago (I even ordered the replacement last week) was slim comfort.