A CAR WITH NO NAME

We’ve had “new car” for almost a year now. In fact we should stop calling it “new car” and perhaps just start calling it “car” I suppose, in the absence of anything better to call it. Anyway, in the post “Blinky” era, we never really came up with anything else to call it. The “Silver Bullet” would never have been appropriate and it is far, far too chunky to be called “Thunderbird One” even though the colour change would have been appropriate as a direct contrast to Blinky’s occasional alter-ego “Thunderbird Two” which it was given because of its dark green colouring and the regular trips made to the tip in a big “cargo container” like way.

“New” car has yet to be sullied with a filthy old trip to the tip. It’s leather seats seemed far too shiny and clean for that sort of thing, but given my general neglect of my vehicles in terms of their cleanliness, perhaps that day is looming. Perhaps such a fate has only been escaped because of the general laziness (or busy-ness… or rainy-ness) which has overtaken us over these past twelve months meaning that the house and garden have been chronically neglected and that kind of rubbish has not been accumulating in quite the same quantities as it once did.

So, having surprisingly survived a full twelve months in a relatively clean state in our company, “new”  car it remains, even though it was not exactly “new” when we bought it, having a good eight years on the clock when it fell into our nefarious and neglectful clutches. It was, of course, merely “new” to us, and that seems to have been the massively inappropriate monicker that it has come to be known by.

However, perhaps, after the past few weeks, I should just start calling it “cash cow” (at least as far an everyone else involved with it is concerned) as it seems to have caused a substantial amount of cash to have been drained from my dwindling resources, but I kind of think that to call it that would ultimately be rather mean, especially to any cattle which might overhear.

You see, the problem with approaching the anniversary of buying a car is that you also approach the time when its first MOT test becomes due, or at least the first one after you became the “registered keeper” or whatever the latest terminology might happen to be. This can be a costly affair and, coming as it did a mere three weeks after that other annual raid on the pocket of the motorist, the annual car insurance renewal, I am currently staring at the “Silver Streak” (No…) with a great deal of what can only be described as bitter, seething resentment.

A tractor by any other name
(Number plate concealed to protect the guilty)

Ironically, when I dropped “new” car off in the morning, I was actually offered a loan vehicle for the day, which was nice, even though it turned out to be a bit of an ex-farm-boy’s “battle tank” which had a gearbox which was akin to stirring porridge and an unpleasant habit of being just a little bit rubbish. Perhaps I would have been better off if they had offered me a tractor...? But I digress. I thought that, when he offered it to me, that he was trying to persuade me that the “Freelander” might be my option of choice whenever I was next considering a trade-in, but that was swiftly kyboshed when I asked him that. He told me that he hated them himself and another customer had rung him to say that hers would be arriving for its MOT test later on “on the back of an AA truck…”

So, I stirred this venerable vehicle through the wettest morning on record, carefully negotiating that hour most associated with the “school run” with frequent stops by the “lollipop guild” and the madness of all the mumsies and dadsies delivering their “little darlings” to their various educational establishments with little thought, it appeared, for their actual safety, given the number of doors swinging open into moving traffic, conversations being had over shoulders as the car was still moving, and the amount of simply running out into oncoming traffic that I witnessed going on.

How do so many of them survive it every day...?

By the time I got to work, what with that and all the porridge-stirring, I was knackered, and I was even more knackered by the return journey during the evening rush hour. I staggered back into the garage’s reception area almost pleading with them to take this monster off me and tell me that the “Silver Lady” (No…) was ready for collection.

Whilst I was relatively happy to be given a courtesy car for the day when it went in for its annual MOT test which I, perhaps unwisely, combined with a full service, in the end being given a loan vehicle for the day didn’t quite make up for the £541+ bill for my own car which I was presented with at the end of the day.

Strangely enough, the two main things that needed paying out for were both things that were not covered by the 1 year warranty that the “Silver Fox” (No…) was supposedly covered by. Tyres, you see are not “mechanical” (and, at the price they cost me, it felt as if they were selling me actual silver tyres to put on my silver car...), and brake discs (apparently) also aren’t covered, as they’re subject to normal “wear and tear”.

Funny that.

Oddly enough, I thought that, by replacing my own wiper blades a couple of weeks ago, I would have pretty much got it covered. It was, after all, “perfectly sound” a year ago, when I bought it. Unfortunately, it seems that I was travelling far, far too hopefully (which is unusual for me, as you’ll know…) by convincing myself of this, because there’s always, always something that you haven’t even thought of that just sitting there waiting to bite you in the wallet.

Sadly, I do seem to have a history of such things. I genuinely don’t believe that I’ve ever dropped a car off for its MOT test and come away with a bill of less than three hundred quid. It seems that, in my case at least, it’s almost become compulsory, although the extra two hundred on top of that seems to be setting a new precedent that I’d rather didn’t turn into a tradition if I can help it. Mind you, I do get the feeling that mechanics just have to see me walk in and they immediately dash off to book their holidays with the word “Jackpot” ker-ching-ing across their eyeballs…

Thankfully, (or at least relatively thankfully) I did manage to switch the annual tax to the other half of the year by forking out for twelve months after the initial six the garage which sold the “Silver Beast” (No…) to me and so at least I’m not having to face the “triple whammy” of MOT, Tax and Insurance all at the same time.

Small mercies, eh…?