YOU know it is going to be one of those days when your exhaust pipe falls off in the middle of New Earswick.

Everything had been going so well up until that point. The baby had managed to stay asleep until 6.30am instead of her usual 5.58am (what exciting thing she thinks happens in our house at precisely 5.58am every morning escapes me). And the five-year-old had managed to eat a bowl of Frosted Shreddies, a black cherry yoghurt, two slices of fruit loaf and a banana without getting even the merest hint of a smear on his clothes, his sister or the cats.

I had even managed to get myself organised, so we didn't have to endure our usual mad rush down the road, screeching buggy wheels burning rubber. I usually have to run the gauntlet of other mums sauntering back home nonchalantly after completing the school run in plenty of time to watch Lorraine Kelly being Scottish on ITV1. But on this particular day I was the first through the classroom door. Coat, book bag, lunch box, get your name, read the board, give us a kiss and I was out of there.

After smashing my own personal best time on the school run, I was determined to get the baby to nursery before they wheeled out the toasted teacakes (forget dummies, toasted teacakes are the only surefire way of soothing a wailing child). If I really got my skates on, I thought, I might even get there before Pat the cook - which sounds like a fun party game if ever I heard one - even switches on her industrial sized grill.

It turned out, however, that I was being overly ambitious. As we trundled past New Earswick Primary School there was an almighty "clonk" from the rear end of the car and it suddenly felt like I was dragging a metallic waterskier over the humps in the road.

I was tempted to ignore the problem in the hope that it would magically disappear, like the time I tried to ignore a puncture on Leeds inner ring road and ended up scoring a deep rut in the carriageway from the International Pool to Elland Road and ruining my rear offside wheel.

But in the end I admitted defeat, pulled in at what turned out to be a highly inconvenient spot for motorists and pedestrians alike - who knew that there were so many rude hand gestures? - and phoned for the RAC.

The more than reasonable 25 minute wait was made all the more bearable by the kindness of strangers.

Not the ones who flicked me the finger of course, but the ones who pulled over to make sure I was okay, who offered to let me use their phone and, in the case of the man whose garden we were very nearly parked in, who offered to get the baby and I a drink.

In the end, the little 'un was an hour late for nursery - there was not so much as a stray raisin from a toasted teacake to be had - and I had to find a garage that could fit an exhaust pronto.

It was then that I discovered how much garages have changed in recent years. Yes, there are still oily men running round in blue boiler suits, but now they run round in surprisingly stylish surroundings. It was all "how can I help you madam" this and "please take a seat madam" that. There were arty posters on the walls without so much of a hint of nipple, a Damian Hirst-style installation hanging from the ceiling and a mezzanine waiting area with refreshments, newspapers and a television.

I half suspected as I sat at a chrome-topped table sipping a cappuccino that I had somehow slipped into a parallel universe, where garages in the middle of industrial estates were the hip places to hang out.

This feeling of unreality continued as the work on my car was carried out promptly and surprisingly cheaply. But, thankfully, it was only a matter of minutes before I returned to the real world with a bang. Or rather a wham, bang, thank you ma'am.

Sitting alone in a car alongside mine was a grubby little oik, eating his sandwiches with oil-stained hands and reading a porn mag. I only hoped that those grubby mitts hadn't been anywhere near my lovely, shiny new exhaust pipe.

Updated: 08:47 Monday, May 17, 2004