I drove my new car to the local shops. I was making every excuse to take it out, purely from the novelty point of view, as I'd never driven a car that did most of the driving for me before. I left the vehicle, pressing the 'one beeb, I'm locked' button on the door, and off I went, with a spring in my step, to the supermarket.
Returning with my purchases, I opened the driver's door, sat in the seat, ready to head for home, but when I pressed the 'go' button, all manner of lights flashed on the instrument panel.
Abject panic set in, and the only one I could interpret was the light telling me the battery was flat. I waited a while thinking it might just be a technical hiccup, but no, the battery light shone bright and there was no sign of life in the motor.
My next move was to phone my son, the mechanic, and in a state of fluster, I explained my predicament. After a short pause, he asked me where the key fob was and I answered that it was in the back pocket of my jeans. He said to take it out and, with it in my hand, to press the 'go' button again, when lo and behold the engine sprung into life.
Feeling extremely embarrassed, I realised that as much as modern technology is there to assist us, it can't operate when it's smothered by kilos of flesh.