The bloke who regularly fixes my bus is what they call a waschechter Bayer - a-dyed-in-the-wool Bavarian. Everyone calls him Ludwig but his name his Dietmar and he's a dab hand with cars. When I told him over the phone the noises Buzzy had made he said, "clutch" (Bavarians tend towards an almost Benedictine taciturnity), "maybe gearbox."
He came round to ours last Tuesday - a public holiday in Germany - with a gift of two loaves of home-baked bread and two pots of home made jam and then drove me to where I had had to abandon Buzzy... on the way we had to stop at his mother's allotment... he had to fix the water tap in the garden... before we left the allotment he had given me two of the lettuces which were growing there, one cucumber he picked from the... whatever cucumbers grow on, two carrots pulled out of the earth and washed under the now functioning tap; we had meanwhile also tried some yellowy raspberry things and the petals of a flower which he insisted tasted like pepper and I thought tasted like soggy tissue paper. We got to Buzzy, he had a look; "clutch . . . and maybe gearbox". We then drove in convoy to his workshop at about 15 m.p.h.
Finally he drove me home again.
And why am I telling you all this? Well, mainly because Ludwig saved me having to make the dreaded decision. Unbeknown to me, as soon as he heard about Buzzy, he had ordered a clutch so he could get the repair done quickly! That allowed me to feel duty bound to have the repair done; ergo niente decisiones (for the non-Classically educated, that is the hopelessly, ludicrously wrong Latin for therefore no decisions)
And maybe his inscrutable, chthonic Bavarian instincts told him that no matter how long I agonised about the decision, my rational, sensible, economy-thinking head would still have been slowly bludgeoned into submission by my dozy, sentimental, spendthrift heart.