Friday 21 November 2014

My Fcuking Car!

SO a couple of weeks ago we had the NCT.   I was very, very suspicious when it failed and I was given just one sheet with yellow highlighter all over it.

It was like being back at school and having your homework returned to you covered with red biro marks.

See, I was expecting the car to be detained at the test centre such were my fears over our teenage car and its various ailments. 

I felt relief to be given a single page filled with things to fix but at the same time my glass half empty self was thinking, “What’s the fekin point?  We’ll pour several hundred quid into the wagon in order to pass the NCT and then something big like the engine will decide to faint on us making it necessary to replace the entire yoke. We may as well set fire to our 500 quid.”

But 500 quid was all we had and we ran with it.

Last Saturday morning we drove our teenage seven seater home from the NCT hospital. Mister Husband was delighted to get another year out of it.  I believe his exact words were, “We’ll drive it into the ground, then we’ll change it.”

I was not so relaxed.  I suffer with The Fear borne from driving a pile of rattling shite with four kids in the back.   (Sorry, Linda if you’re reading!)  (Linda is the previous owner.) 

Clutches can stick, did you know that?

I know fek all about cars but I know this much. From previous experience.  With the same car.

When this happens it is necessary to pump the clutch with your foot in order to release it to change gears and if that doesn’t work you stick the toe of your shoe under it and yank it up.  Failing that, whack on your hazards and hope there is a nice clear stretch of road in front of you with a vacant space to freewheel into.

If you’re very, very lucky this won’t happen to you on a roundabout on a busy Saturday morning. 

Fucking car!  (Sorry, Linda if you’re reading!) 

True to form, the sticky clutch decided to act up one week after the NCT retest and prove to me I was right not to trust that cert.

This very morning when I was sitting in traffic having just dropped the boys to school you’ll never guess what happened?

Go on, have a guess. 

Fekin clutch went on me with half the fekin town fekin sitting behind me. 

I whacked on my park anywhere lights and began to furiously pump the clutch and claw at the gear stick whilst sticking my other hand out the window, signalling the 78 cars I was blocking to drive around me.    

Which they did.

I was pumping like a mad thing but to no avail.  The need in me to do something, anything was strong.  I could still be sitting there, swearing and beating the shite out of the clutch and all I’d have for my troubles would be the mother of all cramps in my thigh.

A big massive thank you to Gerry who was a few cars behind mine and possibly heard the stream of foul language pouring out the open window.

He pushed my stroppy, teenager with an engine to the side of the road, checked to see if I needed a lift anywhere but I assured him all was okay and people were on their way to put manners on the car.

Currently it is reposing in my brother’s garage.  On a time out if you will.  It’s not that we’re threatening it with the scrap yard, this part is more or less a given, it’s just I am so sick of the sight of it right now I cannot be responsible for my actions. 

Funny things have been going through my mind all afternoon.  The contents of the vehicle for one thing.

Immediately I thought of: the dog’s medical records which are in the door, my 15 year old umbrella from New Zealand, the box of street chalks, my notebook, my parking change money bag and a La Roche Posay lip balm which will all need to be rescued.  Amongst other things..

I reckon we need the damn thing more than it needs us though. 

Fucking car!

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