We are walking out of my son’s primary school for the last time at the end of his final day in P7. There is no doubt that this emotional event will be the subject of my next column (that’s just what I do, right?)

We are smartly dressed as we are due to travel on to a farewell class party which has been organised for children and parents. I drive the car onto the road but am immediately aware that something is wrong. I pull to a stop again beside the pavement.

I get out and discover that the rear left tyre is completely flat. I stare sadly at the rubber rim which is sinking uselessly under the weight of the car, like Atlas with lumbago. 

‘Oh boy’, I mumble to myself, as scenarios, difficulties and challenges multiply in my mind.

I have suffered punctures with vehicles before. I have successfully changed a tyre in the past. But not in a long time, perhaps more than 20 years. I have a vague recollection of the method and the technique. I am reasonably confident that if I was home in the driveway, I’d be able to complete the job. But here, at the side of the road, with pedestrians and cars going past, my brain becomes scrambled and I’m not so sure. It’s a bit like peeing in a urinal, I know I can do it, but not with people watching.

If I were to prove unequal to the task I think of alternative approaches. I could phone my da for help. Having said that, I’m pushing 50 and there has to be a statute of limitations on such things. The other possibility is to summon the RAC as I’m a fully paid up member. However, there seems to be something emasculating about having to call for help. I decide I will attempt to proceed alone.

I start to make a mental list of the equipment required and steps to be undertaken. I go to the boot to begin the search for the spare tyre. This first of all requires emptying seven years of junk from the space. Video gear, tripods, umbrellas, walking boots, two pairs of my wife’s shoes and countless shopping bags are piled at the side of the road before I locate the base which is lifted to reveal the spare tyre underneath. It seems to be resting in a small pool of rusty water, which I take not to be a good sign.

I struggle to move the spare tyre. I notice it is not substantive, not a like for like replacement, but a temporary emergency wheel, a ‘get you home’ tyre which looks more suited to a moped than a car. I can almost hear the disapproving tuts of my da at the sight of the flimsy article.

I have found the tyre, but the jack is not with it. This disturbs me as it seems logical that they should be together. I begin to search the car for the implement, looking under the back seat for hidden compartments as if it were a magician’s cabinet. The jack is eventually located after a panel is removed from the side wall of the boot. It takes me another 10 minutes to work out how to remove the tool from the slot in which it is neatly and tightly encased.

While I am trying to solve this conundrum there is a significant development. A family that we know approaches. It is my son’s best friend from school. Through this relationship, my wife and I have also become friends with his parents.

There are multiple benefits. My son, who is becoming agitated and bored, now has someone to play with. My wife has someone to talk to. Best of all, there is now another grown-up male on the scene. This man is larger than me, louder than me and, to be frank, sports a more impressive beard.

His opening gambit is to state that he doesn’t want to insult me by offering to help in changing the tyre. However, something in my pathetic wrestling with the jack must persuade him that I would very much welcome any such insult and he quickly sets himself to loosening the wheel nuts.

I have eventually freed the jack and I’m close to spent already. I put it in place under the car but struggle to get the handle to turn easily. My friend takes over and proves to be much more proficient. The vehicle is soon elevated and I’m able to fully remove the wheel nuts.

But the biggest obstacle now presents itself. The wheel should slide off. It does not. Instead it gives every indication of being stuck fast, as if it has been rusted onto the car axle. I try feebly to remove it. My friend tries more robustly. It does not shift. He asks me if I have a hammer. I do not. I strike it a few ineffective blows with the handle of the jack. Then my friend, in his smart clothes, positions himself on the dirty ground inside the tyre and lands a hefty kick with his giant boot which frees the wheel, launching it outwards like a piece of freshly popped corn. I can do nothing more than nod appreciatively.

From here, the task is more straightforward. The replacement tyre is fitted, the jack lowered, and the bolts tightened. My friend has thoughtfully brought wipes which allows us to clean the worst of the smears of black grease from our hands.

As we say our goodbyes, he charitably tells me that it was a ‘two-man job’. Of course, it depends who the two men are.

Before I drive off, I make a final check on the flimsy replacement tyre. There is a message on it advising not to drive faster than 80kph while it is fitted. I am not happy with the temporary remedy and tell myself that I must get to the garage urgently so the proper tyre can be repaired and restored.

And that, my friends, is a story for next week….