Time for a change of profession?
My poor little car is dying a long and painful death and I am in two minds about what to do with it. My mechanic told me a long time ago to get rid of it and buy something ten years younger, Japanese and air-conditioned. His advice is probably reasonable, but I am attached to my old red Opel and don’t want to abandon it somewhere to rust and fall into useless little red pieces. You see, as a child I was told to respect German cars and was made to believe they could go on for ages. Somewhere deep inside I still believe it.
“German cars are strong and trustworthy,” my father used to tell me. “Actually, they are like the horse from Orwell’s Animal Farm. They work until they drop dead because of age and overwork.”
Now, the truth is I have always hated what the pigs do to the horse in the novel so I don’t want to act similarly. Also, I have personal feelings – myself and the car have gone through a lot together and a bond between us has been created. I remember, for example, the first time I drove it after a few lessons to remind me how to drive after 20 years. A nice, female, driving instructor did a very good job of showing me how to go forward but for various reasons had to stop before we got to reversing. Nevertheless, I began using the car and at the end of the first day of driving had to reverse while parking. What can I say? The street was narrow and I hit three walls in the process. I still remember sitting there, after the old houses in my street had stopped shaking, and all my neighbours came out to see whether there had been some sort of earthquake. Just then my mobile rang. It was a friend. He listened to what had happened and cheered me up by saying: “Don’t worry. You are a Gemini like me. You will never have big car accidents – just small and crazy ones. Yesterday, for example, I drove into a petrol station.”
Another time, also at the beginning of my driving carrier, the car wouldn’t start at one of Nicosia’s major junctions. Well, technology has never been my strong point and I thought it could be caused by a lack of petrol so I got out of the car and went to the guy behind me.
“I am sorry,” I said. “Would you mind having a look whether I have petrol in my tank please? I don’t know how to check it but perhaps I don’t have any and that’s why I can’t move and am blocking you.”
Or how about the day when a policeman stopped me and informed me about the existence of a road tax? Of course, I promised him I would go and pay it immediately.
The latest of my car adventures took place in northern Nicosia and was caused by the engine overheating. It was late Friday afternoon in the middle of our annual summer holiday and I stood there hopelessly, under a tree, in one of the back streets, wondering how to proceed. My Greek Cypriot mechanic was away, my Turkish Cypriot friends travelling. It was a typical no-immediate-solution situation. A black convertible stopped nearby and its driver, a man I had met once before, offered to assist. He looked into the engine and said: “It needs some work. Don’t worry. I will take it to my mechanic. He is a friend. It will cost you very little.”
On Sunday, the man called me sounding positively ecstatic. “We have done everything,” he said. “Absolutely everything. The car is like new. You won’t recognise it. And the work is so cheap! It will cost you a mere £600. I can’t believe how lucky you are.”
Now, just to make it totally clear – my car is not worth more than about £300 to £500 and everybody knows it. The next day, supported by some friends, I went to the man to ask him to give me the car back so I could take it to a real garage and check the work he was claiming. He refused. I had to go to the police. They ordered the man to hand me the keys and me to go to a garage, have the car checked and pay him accordingly.
I write a week later. The car sits safely parked in front of my house, looking truly splendid. It has its bumpers painted black, silver decorations stuck on its sides and the engine sprayed black and silver. It has been nicely cleaned. However, since no major repair has been done on its insides, it is still overheating.
£600 for repainting bumpers? Perhaps I should change my profession, buy a black convertible and start earning.
