On a very cold late December night in the 1933 there was a man happily trundling along in his Austin Seven Swallow. He was in a lonely and bleak part of the Yorkshire moors about half an hour from his house, the lights on his car being the only indication of human existence for miles. A very light dusting of snow had just covered the landscape, barely visible in the darkness, but it hadn’t stuck to the road. He listened to the hum from the little side valve engine as he puffed contentedly on his pipe, a stream of pleasantly scented smoke finding its way out of the half open window.
He was just wondering what his wife will have made for their supper, when suddenly the engine faltered, coughed a few times and then stopped altogether. He glanced at the petrol gauge on the instrument panel. Half full. He coasted to a stop and tapped the gauge just to be sure. Still half full. Pushing the button for the electric starter produced no more life than from the starter itself so, tightening his scarf around his neck, he got out of the car into the cold of the night, and armed with the starting handle he bent to the task of re-starting the little Austin. Nothing the man did to try and re-start his engine would persuade it from its reverie. Giving up, he pulled up the collar on his trench coat and started walking. After a while he came across a cottage with the lights still on. He knocked on the front door and explained his plight to the householder and his wife. Fortunately they had a telephone and they also knew the local garage owner who agreed come out after hours to collect the man from the cottage and drive him back to his car.
The mechanic looked under the bonnet then tried the starting handle. Deathly silence. He took out a screwdriver and turned a screw. He tried the starting handle again and the little engine burst into life.
When the garage owner asked the man for his payment, the man said, “How much? You only turned a screw.” The garage owner replied, “Yes, but I knew which screw to turn.”
Recently, I was walking in a street near to my house when I met a man who lives near me who is also a photographer in London. He related a story about a client who questioned him about a quote for a photographic assignment which he thought was a little high. He went on to say that he could get a lower quote. The photographer said, “Ah yes, but my quote reflects my 30 years experience and the quality of the job you will get … your choice, of course.”