Is there anything better than driving in Tasmania? I mean, no doubt there is, but I’m blissfully unaware of it when I’m gliding through this pristine landscape. Right now, however, I’m not doing a whole lot of that. I’m sitting on the side of the road in some random corner of Hobart, feeling utterly exasperated while I wait for my ride to get towed.

According to a sign over the way, I’m in Mornington. Car repair services can be procured somewhere near here, right? Please reassure me. Meanwhile, I’ll concern myself with pondering how confusing it is that this suburb has the same name as where I live in Victoria.

Anyway, to reframe: driving in Tasmania is the best if and only if your vehicle is up to the task. Evidently, my old hatchback has done its dash for the time being, and we’re not even close to halfway through the trip I have planned. I suppose I should have invested in a car service before I set off, but I wanted to save my dollars for petrol and craft beers.

Looks like I’ll be having a few of those, if I’m going to be stuck here in Hobart. If there one thing Hobartians do well… oh, hang on, there’s the tow truck. I’m really hoping they can recommend me a mechanic. Mornington seems to have at least a couple of options, and I’m keen to use the one that’s closest to a public transport line.

The truck driver is staring at me like I’m an idiot. I know I should have bothered with that service, but it’s not like it’s all my fault that my car’s broken down. What does he want me to do – be able to predict the future? Now he’s muttering something and shaking his head. I’d better go and defend my honour as an interstate driver, I suppose.

Oh. I see. I’ve left the handbrake on.