Mechanics, milk bottles and moronic behaviour

THERE are three things in life which when found should be held on to tightly or the loss will always be regrettable.  The perfect-fit jeans is the first (once found, buy as many as you can afford that day), the second is your place in a queue in the supermarket - don't risk jumping to another seemingly shorter queue - because that solitary old lady standing there will pay for her weekly shopping in loose change whilst insisting on sharing all of her various ailments, contagious or otherwise to the cashier.  The third is a decent mechanic.  I learnt that last one this week after what can only be described as a traumatic experience for all concerned.

 I'm fairly neurotic when it comes to my car; I listen out for any rattle which might signify the tyres have fallen off, or the seat is about to eject itself, taking me through the roof, never to be seen again.  I'll interrupt all conversations with my passengers, however important they might be: "So the doctor said it might be terminal..." "Mmmm did you hear that banging noise - I wonder if that's my exhaust?"

 And so this week has been like any other ; a trip to town with the boyfriend and a backseat full of plastic milk bottles ready for the recycling bank.  Then it happens: a car noise that is actually heard by someone other than me.

 By the time we reach town I'm sufficiently freaking out and swerve into the nearest multi-national garage - a location I find about as desirable as headlice.  They are magnets for a combination of young spotty greasemonkeys who smirk a lot and tired old spanner dogs who call you 'luv' and always look severely annoyed you've entered their world - in their day women weren't allowed to drive.  A quick look at the driver's door and a kick of a tyre is enough to tell the garagefolk my car is fine and I really am as dumb as I look but just to be safe I should run it over to the local Renault garage. Of course, take it to another garage.  What did I expect? It's half four on a Friday, of course nothing is wrong with the car.

 And so to shopping, where I obeyed the queuing rule.  Just over an hour later I return to the car and decide to open the bonnet, except it's already been unlocked.  With shaking hands I unhook it and lift it up... my eyes rest on the windscreen washer fluid container and its lid open and hanging off.  Then my other half points to a pipe connected to the engine, or rather half connected and it feels as brittle as French toast. OH MY GOD. How have I managed to drive anywhere with the car like this? I contain myself long enough to speed-dial a local independent mechanic, who normally has to subdue my annual MOT panic attacks.  It's 5.45pm but he answers and after listening to my incoherent nonsense agrees to come out and look at the car.  The boyfriend is by now looking longingly at the bags of food shopping and mentally debating the perception of him eating a dry loaf of bread slice by slice in a public place.

 

 The mechanic arrives chirpy as ever and humours me by making eye contact as I relate my tale of woe.  He looks under the bonnet, sees the pipe and says that it's fine, not a problem.  Offering to take it for a test-drive to hear the mystery noise, I clamber into the passenger seat, and my only other witness to the noise slips into the backseat as the clatter of 30 or so milk bottles causes the mechanic to gasp at the sight of so much supermarket-bought dairy containers.

 "We're not milk freaks," I hear myself saying, "I was taking them to be recycled."

 With a degree of hesitancy in his voice the mechanic responds: "Erh yeah..."

 The pressure is on as the mechanic drives my little car around town, we all silently hold our breaths incase that prevents us hearing the mystery car noise.

 "There is a slight rattle but nothing major - is that the noise you heard?" I shrug my shoulders, seriously beginning to doubt my grip on reality.

 The need to find the sound begins to get to me and I resort to defensive behaviour; humour. "Okay when I tap the dashboard I want you to perform an emergency stop," I tell the mechanic and begin to manically laugh.   I feel a kick from the back seat and a clatter of milkbottle as the other half tries to shut me up - the response from the mechanic is one of confusion.

 Back in the car park, the mechanic patiently looks under the bonnet again for me and in a soothing tone explains that nothing is wrong.  I eventually get it; the car is fine.  Which is more than could be said for my sanity as I hear myself confess to the mechanic with all seriousness that what I actually thought had happened was that the engine had blown up at some point without me realising, removing the windscreen washer fluid cap, the pipe and popping the bonnet open in the explosion.

 The mechanic, who has maintained composure up until that point, starts laughing, advises my other half never to be left alone with me and gets in his car to leave.

 I ask how much I owe him for the callout after 5pm on the Friday before a bank holiday - by now I will quite happily pay any amount to cover the shameful behaviour - he just laughs again and shouts across the car park: "Are you kidding? The entertainment value alone has been priceless."

 I think there's a lot to be said for public transport.