True story.
Many, many moons ago, when I was stationed at RAF Linton-on-Ouse and married to one of Satan's handmaidens, I was tasked with driving said harridan to York railway station (she didn't drive).
The prior evening, we'd had the mother and father of all rows, so breakfast on the morning in question was quite a frosty affair to say the least.
Time to depart and I trotted out to my trusty Granada to clear some frost off the windscreen.
The vision from hell stormed out of the house after me, slamming the front door and looking mightily upset that I'd made her carry her own bloody bag.
Start the car, pull away and immediately push in the cigarette lighter intending to have a sanity stick to prepare me for the anticipated drive.
"That won't f***ing work" spake the smug looking harpy sat next to me.
Somewhat intrigued, and wondering where she had suddenly acquired a knowledge of all things mechanical/electrical, I cautiously asked why not.
"The engine's not hot enough yet".
Her mood very quickly plunged to new depths when I had to pull over and stop due to being unable to see the road through the hysterical tears and laughter that consumed me. Needless to say, the remainder of the journey was eventually (when I'd recovered) made in abject silence and I had more than a few beers bought for me when I related the story in the bar.
