There are very few times in life when I think, you know what would make this easier? A husband. Mainly because husbands (and let’s be honest, men in general) are often the very people making life more complicated. But there is one particular moment where I suddenly, fleetingly, long for a husband like a 1950s housewife in an apron with matching oven gloves.
And that moment is when the petrol light comes on.
Not even when it first flickers – I’m still full of denial then, like maybe it’s lying, maybe I can just manifest a full tank. But when it’s been blinking aggressively for 25 minutes and the range says “4 miles” and I’m trying to convince myself that 4 miles is actually loads of miles when you’re driving economically and breathing gently – that’s when I start fantasising about a man.
Not for anything sexy, obviously. Just for the deeply attractive mental image of someone else standing in the rain on a Tuesday morning, hands reeking of unleaded, getting that one pump that’s definitely broken but he’s committed now and it’s spluttering away like it’s powered by regret.
You know in films when the husband jumps in the car and says, “I filled up for you, love,” like it’s nothing? Like it’s just a normal thing to do for someone you like? I want that. I want that. That and someone who knows how to change the windscreen wiper fluid without needing to YouTube it for 15 minutes and still spilling half of it down the front of their jeans.
Because here’s the thing: I don’t hate driving. I don’t mind tax, insurance, MOTs, the whole charade. But there is something about putting petrol in the car that just feels like a deep personal affront. Like life is mocking you for daring to think you could go anywhere without paying a small fortune to do so.
And of course, there’s never a convenient time to do it. You’re always late for the school run or wearing a white top that screams please splash me with diesel. There’s always that tiny panic that you’ll pull up on the wrong side, even though you’ve had the car for three years, and then you have to do that awkward shuffle-reverse-hopscotch thing with the pump stretched across your boot like you’re trying to launch a trebuchet.
Plus, I always feel like I’m being judged by the other people there. Like they know I waited until the last possible moment. Like they can smell the desperation and mild scent of burning toast that follows me everywhere.
So yes. Do I want a husband? No.
Do I want someone to magically keep my petrol tank full without me having to think about it ever again? Absolutely yes.
That’s the fantasy. Forget roses and diamonds. Just fill up my car, wipe the windscreen, and bring me a coffee from the petrol station that doesn’t taste like burnt rubber.
And then maybe leave me alone for a bit so I can scroll Instagram in the car without judgment.
Is that too much to ask?