I’m on a Vigil for my car. If you care about me, you all will be too.
See, it’s that time of year again. Well, actually, it’s not that time of year, if you want to get pedantic about it. Technically speaking, the MOT on my car doesn’t run out until June 15, but I’ve decided to put myself through the SHEER HELL that is waiting for the results, purely because I can’t stand the suspense any longer.
Ever since we got back from our honeymoon, I’ve been worrying about my MOT, and specifically – how much it’s going to cost me. These fears are not unfounded. This one time? Damn MOT-ers charged me £300 for something they refereed to as “CD shoes” and which I’d never heard of in my life. How can that happen? How can something I didn’t even know existed cost £300 to replace? And seriously, I don’t spend £300 on my own shoes (or my own CDs, come to think of it. Although I would like to). Why should I spend it on shoes for my car?
So, I’ve been worrying about the MOT. For the past two years, it’s got through the MOT without needing anything done to it. My luck has run out for sure. I just know that this time it’s probably going to need every single thing on it replaced. Every. Single. Thing. It will cost me hundreds – nay, thousands – of pounds. I don’t have them. Where will I get the hundreds of pounds to fix my car? WHERE?
Also: I have no clothes. None. And I have no shoes either. I need clothes and shoes. How will I buy them if I’ve spent all my money (that I don’t have) on my car? HOW? All of this has been going around in my head for weeks now. It has been keeping me awake at night. So this morning, after another hour of: “And what if it needs more CD shoes? And a new engine? Where will I get the money? What about that green dress in Asda that I want? I won’t be able to get it, will I? What if we have to sell the house? Or Rubin? What about that skirt I saw in Zara that time? And also, I need new black skinny jeans, because the ones I bought in April went brown. What if the car needs a whole new body, WHAT IF?” Terry decided he had had ENOUGH ALREADY. So he called up and booked the car in for its MOT. It is at 3pm. His thinking is that, even if the news is bad, at least it will end the torture of suspense I am under. Well, that’s the theory, anyway.
“I’ll come with you to drive you home,” Terry said. “Unless you want to just wait there for them to finish the MOT?”
This is a good example of how Terry is clearly on crack. Because sitting in the waiting room while your car goes through its MOT is like sitting outside the operating theatre while a loved one goes through emergency surgery. You see the doors fly open as surgeons burst in and out, worried expressions on their faces. Through the window in the door (why is there always a window in the operating theatre doors on TV? I mean, surely that’s the LAST door you’d want to put a window in?) you see them scratch their heads and shrug their shoulders. You see the defibrillator come out, and hear the cry of “CLEAR” as they try to restart the heart. You see the monitor flatline… God, I really shouldn’t have watched Neighbours, yesterday, should I?
Anyway, this is my car:
Pray for it, please…