It’s not impressive is it? I wish that I could say that this was the image of a ten year olds arm, or promise you that I’m not tensing my muscles at all because if I did then the gun show that you would see would be so awe inspiring that I really should charge admission.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is my twenty seven year old left arm. And I’m left handed so obviously it’s the most impressive of my normal quota of two arms. You don’t want to see how measly the right one is. Really.

Let’s face it, arms such as this are not going to hang either side of a ripped body are they? They are not there to distract you from my rippling abs or my tree trunk thigh muscles, as hard as concrete and a million times stronger. They are there because they are like the rest of me, small, weedy and a bit sorry for themselves.

I’m pretty sure Baby Jake could confidently take me on and win. If he caught me as I fled in fear at his absolutely terrifying and frankly evil freaky head that is.

I wish that this was a story of an epic rescue or my ability to keep calm in a crisis *snort* but, alas, with arms like mine that’s just not going to happen.

So when in the middle of a thunder storm in the middle of a car park mums clutch just went and the car just crunched and protested and stopped and she pressed the pedal to the metal several times in the way that you have to to check that it really isn’t working I did get off to a good start. I switched the hazard lights on. Then I felt a bit clever for thinking so quickly as a non driver. Then I made sure that the car was in neutral and the handbrake was off and, because it’s what you do, I said I would get out and push.

Out I hopped to save the day. I don’t give a shit that I’m only wearing a flimsy t-shirt and the rain is making it do that thing where it goes see through over the chest only and there’s an attractive dry patch where your boobs shelter your belly. As I shut the passenger door and calmly walked around the car I was amazed that for a crazy person who can and does get desperately anxious over nothing at all I was cool and collected and we hadn’t crashed and I was saving the day.

I put both hands on the cold, wet car and I pushed.

Oh. Nothing happened. Why isn’t the car moving? Maybe I need to push for longer, with a bigger stride. No. Nothing. Shit, I can’t move the car.

I can’t move the car and I’m really trying and my bra is now clearly visible through my top and no ones coming to help andandand…

Finally, on my third enormous push – I gave birth to a whole human in four pushes for gods sake, how is my vagina stronger than the whole of me?! Can you push a car with your vagina? Stop it! This isn’t the time for stupidity. – the car moved about a millimetre forward. I keep going, willing all of my eight and a half stone mass to shift a five door beast to the nearest safe place.

I manage about a metre before, and in slow motion of course because it was all rather dramatic and rain was dripping from my nose and I was practically and inch off the ground because I had to put so much effort into getting the car to roll even slightly, a sporty little number swung behind me and out jumped a gentleman – you know the kind. Don’t deny it, you do. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Did I mention it was raining? – and all of a sudden he was by my side asking what happened while he started to help me push. I mumbled something about the clutch between panting and heaving and thanked him for helping.

And then I felt someone to the other side of me. I turned to thank who ever it was, because crisis or not it’s always nice to be polite to strangers in a car park when your bras on display, and that’s when I noticed that I’d struck lucky and oh hai there nice eyes and cheeky crooked smile. I smile back and we all push together. The car surges about twenty feet forward because two fully grown men are obviously more cut out for the job than me alone. I got the momentum going though, without my groundwork it wouldn’t have been so easy.

Unfortunately, as a result of said groundwork and said big strong men my legs sort of gave way in a dramatic fashion as the car sailed forward and I stumbled and then tripped and then pealed my face off the Tarmac just in time to see mum swinging into a clearing, Mr Sportscar brushing off his hands and swaggering off (probably to buy some Old Spice and some new sunglasses) and Mr QuiteAttractive laughing as I rubbed my knees and hobbled over to the car.

Two hours we had to sit and wait for the RAC. Two hours in the car in the rain while I blushed and rubbed my bruised knee and scuffed jeans and wished I’d had a bit of a panic attack instead to save a bit of face.