It sounded unhappy when I set off from work, but it often does when starting from cold and I thought it would soon cheer up. But the engine kept missing and my forward progress got jerkier and jerkier until I had to stop.
This is how I imagine running out of petrol would feel, though it was too dark to check, but the petrol light had only just gone on when I left work which should give me at least 10 miles before I actually need to fill up. Unless someone snuck out in their lunchbreak and siphoned my tank it must be something to do with the rain - probably damp spark plugs, which I could have fixed with WD40 if (a) I'd had any WD40 and (b) I had the faintest idea where my spark plugs were.
So I had to abandon the poor thing in a location which will remain secret in case anyone reading this is the alter ego of the Notorious Scooter Thief of Old London Town, hope to Christ it doesn't get nicked, smashed up or broken into overnight, and walk to the Elephant & Castle for a bus.
The bus stop had one of those newfangled LED displays, which informed me that there would be a Catford bus in 18 minutes. Yeesh. This is why the things haven't caught on: they tell the truth, and nobody likes it.
The bus, when it eventually rolled up, must have been very new too as whenever someone pressed the Stop button it said "This bus will be stopping at the next bus stop. Please stand well clear of doors." in a voice like Hattie Hayridge's Holly at her most sarcastic. Also the seats were supremely uncomfortable plastic with just a thin covering of fuzzy fabric, presumably to prevent people slashing the cushions for their selfish pleasure. (People had simply stolen the covers from the back 13 seats instead.)
I sat next to the man with peeling skin on his ears who was supping Fosters from a can wrapped in a white plastic bag, arriving home in an hour and a half - roughly triple the time it would take me driving. It's journeys like this that make me remember why I have a scooter.
I just hope I still have one tomorrow.