Pump Panic

On Monday, I pulled into a petrol station, but there wasn't a pump available on the filler side of the car. I decided to try to park cleverly and pull the hose on its reel to fill up. It was frustrating to find that this particular filling station had fixed hoses. Determined not to go to the bother of moving the car again, I wedged the nozzle in as best as I could, and squeezed the trigger. There was an ominous whooshing noise and a wave of fuel surged back up the filler tube and drenched me. This was particularly annoying as I was on my way to a meal out, and was wearing quite smart clothes. On my way to pay, I felt rather self conscious, smelling rather strong while in the queue. They didn't sell t-shirts in the shop, so I had to have a go at washing my jumper in the miniscule basin in the ladies. It wasn't a very successful attempt, so I gave up and went back to the car. Now, I am well known for having a very messy car - my work mates affectionately call it 'the skip'. Luckily, as it was full of junk, I found an old sweatshirt buried in the rear passenger footwell. I whipped off my wet jumper, that sparked ominously as I pulled it over my head. I drove off to my friend's house, but as I drove along, the petrol in my trousers started to react with my skin. It was so painful I thought I might have caught fire. I resisted the urge to pull into a layby and take my trousers off; it was cold and dark and I was in the middle of the countryside. I had to make do with a shower at my friend's place, when all was put to rights. I was very relieved that the restaurant we went to didn't have candles on the table, as the aura of petrol fumes was still fairly strong and I wasn't in the mood to flambe.