When Thor went to Mugello in a rented car, he was delayed because of a nail.
The nail pierced the front tyre, making it flap slurpily into the Autogrill car park.
Incensed, Thor roared for answers, paced the forecourt, shouted at Avis down the phone. Told them what they could do with their tinpot cars.
To no avail.
The bone was broken, the car immobile. Nothing to do but feast on coffee and foccaccia in the slicing heat and wait for somebody to do something.
Which they did, eventually – and finally, Thor hit the autostrada as though eagles were following him – blood and caffiene roaring around his eyes as he fixed his gaze on the white line and made up for lost time.
Later, having greeted his hosts and apologised for the lateness of the hour, he sat in the cool of the loggia, musing.
Nails don’t just land in tyres for no reason.
(Thanks Niel Gaiman)