I fear the worst for her;
although she keeps going in impressively stoic fashion, defying the ravages of
time, ignoring the wear and tear that she bravely endures and overcomes, it
could be the end of the road for her shortly.
I have treated her with love and respect and looked after her as best as
I can but I know that she cannot go on forever. My dear old red Fiat Seicento, 1999 model,
labelled affectionately as the Postman Pat mobile by my erstwhile friend Alfie
C, is due for her annual MOT. (As a footnote,
before I proceed, I mused one day that Alfie C is the only person I know [i.e.
I know personally, therefore not including television and radio personalities]
that has a catch phrase, being “That’s it, that’s unlucky.” However, I then
realised that another associate of mine, Colly Coren, also has the inimitable
catchphrase, “Fair play to the c*nt, that’s what I say”, which to Coren’s
eternal credit can be sensibly amended to “Fair play to him, that’s what I say”
in polite or feminine company.)
MOT time is only
surpassed by Christmas in terms of tension and anxiety in facing up to
unpredictable and unquantifiable expense.
The one overwhelming certainty is that the Postman Pat mobile, like dear
old Eddie the Eagle Edwards at the Winter Olympics, is going to fail. The question which I nervously ponder each
year is, how badly is she going to fail by?
After carrying out his explorations, which I fear this time round will
be more like a post-mortem, the mechanic calls me with the list of failures,
none of which I understand not being the slightest mechanically minded (for all
know he could be playfully making up the car parts in question.) While the man-with-spanner works through the
list I pepper him periodically with the burning question, “How much will it
cost?” Eventually, the mechanic, after a
blowing out a deep breath, delivers the damning verdict. Even over the telephone, the spanner man must
be able to hear the melancholy sound of my heart sinking. And then, just when you feel the customary relief
after hearing expected bad news, like the master executioner the mechanic
issues the killer blow “………… plus VAT.”
The fretfulness and
worriment of Christmas expenditure and the cost of fixing dear old Pat merged
into one shortly before the festive season this year when on starting her
ignition Pat coughed, spluttered, juddered and died, like a hammy amateur actor
in a provincial production of Hamlet.
After looking under Pat’s bonnet, the RAC man, after much head
scratching and mild farm yard noises, diagnosed that Pat had not died but was
simply in a coma. “When was the last
time you had her serviced?” he quizzed.
“I’ve never had her serviced” I replied.
He explained that Pat, who only commands 899cc anyway, was running off
only 3 of her 4 cylinders and had spark plugs in a worse condition than Albert
Steptoe’s cardigan. A service was needed.
Then, as a parting shot, the RAC man pointed at my improvised wing
mirror and exclaimed in great dismay and bewilderment, “what the f*ck is
that!?” Vandals on Fungus Hill had again
mindlessly ruined Pat’s wing mirror so, showing what I thought was great
ingenuity, I sellotaped a shaving mirror to the remnants of the fitting. It worked for me and Pat, not being vane, did
not seem to mind.
So be you Buddhist,
Calvinist, Taoist, Celtic Pagan, Rastafarian, Israelite, a member of any other
religion, denomination or cult, or plain atheist like me, please pray for the
health and welfare of my beloved Pat, in the hope that after the day of MOT
reckoning Postman Pat rides again.
© Dominic Horton, 24th
January, 2013.
No comments:
Post a Comment