And there was me having a giggle at the expense of my fellow BBW escort Melody and the maladies of her car when I read her blog last week. I did chortle at the bit when she said the mechanic had shrugged his shoulders and said, “well, it’s a Rover, innit.”

I was on my way to run some errands this morning and the bloomin’ clutch went in the car.  Couldn’t change gears and the clutch just stuck to the floor. I’m not really that suprised. It’s an old car, nearly 20yrs old, and I’ve had her for more or less half of her life and this is the first major problem I’ve ever had with her. It’s a Nissan Primera and she has served me well all these years. Even at her last MOT back in August, apart from the bulb going in one of the headlights, she’d passed it. But when I went for my pedicure yesterday I did hear a “ping” when I pressed on the clutch. So I knew something was going to happen.

It was amazing to see the sympathy of people who were stuck behind me, not. Including an old dear in her little hatchback animatedly throwing a few curses at me. You’d think she’d roll her window down if she really wanted me to hear her. A Merry Christmas to you too, you person full of joy. I just ignored her and pushed my car to a more convenient spot where we wouldn’t be in the way. I had stopped on a yellow line, so my main problem was to hurry up and get the car off of it. I wasn’t about to be ruffled by unheard expletives.

Long story short, after an hour of waiting in the piddling rain, the recovery truck showed up and towed me to my local garage in Croydon. I wait with bated breath to hear the bad news tomorrow, see which limb I have to dissect by way of payment.

I consoled myself by stopping at my local bakers and buying a doorstop sandwich and cheesecake for lunch, as I hadn’t had breakfast. The idea being to get out there early, get stuff done and back home for lunch. As it happened the whole ordeal took most of the morning anyway.  Back home and under the covers to warm up and watch a whole afternoon of Spongebob Squarepants on Nickelodeon. Errands abandoned until another day.

Happy New Year me.

I just woke up to this text sent late last night: “Any Jan sale? Plz let me kno, got ass 2 die 4.”

Apart from the fact that I don’t reply to randomly sent texts, yes, I know I have an ass to die for, but to answer your question no, no January sales.

I already have one of the lowest rates in Central London. Most fees are £150 and upwards. Which I was for a while but reduced back down to £140 in sympathy of the recession, which people seemed to have appreciated. So no, the last thing I’m going to do is reduce my prices even further, even if it’s just temporarily. I reckon I’m worth every penny as it is.

I’ve also heard from ladies who do temporarily reduce their rates with some sort of special deal, then have trouble going back to their original rate. Some gents who’ve taken advantage of such special deals, then expect it permanently and will actually argue with ladies on why they think they deserve that special rate all year round. Thus leading to grief and headaches.

Saying that, I’m not totally unfeeling. If you’ve been following my blog from the beginning, you’ll have remembered the odd discount on overnights and long bookings when I’ve stayed at an airport hotel the night before a flight. I think I’ve done that a couple of times.

But sorry, when it comes to my hourly rates, a discount is never going to happen. Not even seasonal “sales”. I think that with all the services I provide and considering my constancy in the business, my hourly rate is more than fair. It also needs to be considered that I do pay an ad hoc rate on the flat in Victoria.

But to whoever sent the text last night, thank you for making me smile this morning.