We took the car to Pentagon to have its back windscreen wiper fixed. We had to go to Pentagon- to the dealership- because the scrote who broke the wiper off removed not only the blade but half the arm- and the procedure was the equivalent of minor surgery. I enjoy going to Pentagon; it's like a ritzy private hospital; you sit in a deep armchair and the uniformed staff ply you with free coffee while you wait. I took a book with me- Max Brooks' Zombie Survival Guide- and had time to read about half of it. Next time the dead rise from their graves I'll know exactly what to do: stockpile food and water on the first floor and take out the stairs- because zombies are about as brainy as woodlice and don't know how to climb.