Car Trouble



Sweet Mother of Mercy.

Ever since I got back from my little holiday in Kerry earlier this week, things appear to be getting more and more difficult.

In the first place, I’d been able to ignore the fact, in Kerry, that substantial damage had been done to my car on the first night I was there.  It’s purely cosmetic, but will require quite some cash to repair.  In Kerry, I’d decided not to worry about it until after the weekend, lest the worrying spoil my fun.

But the closer I got to home on Monday, the more anxious I became about it.  Now that the holiday was over, the matter had to be dealt with, in a grown up fashion, either by myself or the insurance company.  Sigh.

I had contracted the plague on my journey.  Well, possibly not the plague, but a sneezy sniffle that continues to mither me, and make me moany and miserable. 

His Nibs is not pleased.  I am, apparently, a very difficult patient.

But things weren't too bad.  The sun has been shining and I haven't been to work for a  week.  Things were all right.  Until today. 

Today took the biscuit completely.    I had the car’s NCT test booked for this morning. 

I hate the NCT.  For any non Irish readers, it’s the National Car Test, basically a confirmation of roadworthiness that lasts for two years if the car is between four and ten years old, and that has to be done every year after that.

My car is six years old.  I expect a six year old car to be roadworthy, to be honest.  It’s not like cars are cheap, if they only lasted six years I think we’d all have to go back to driving horses and carts.

The car failed its test two years ago, when it was four years old.  Apparently, one of its lights wasn’t working, which wasn’t a big problem.

His Nibs and I spent a fair few minutes out in the garden last night, checking the oil levels, the anti freeze levels (I don’t know, he said it was important) and all the bulbs.

I’ll admit, I thought that if the damage to the door of the car didn’t bother the test man, that it would probably soar through the test.

I’m a deluded moron.

You’re not going to believe this.  It failed, obviously.

Because some seal (which sounded like “plinkety plonkety” to me, but that couldn’t be right, surely?) is leaking oil on the left and the right.

A leaky seal.  Feck.  It’s one of those things you can’t prepare for, isn’t it?  The car isn’t visibly leaking any oil.  I thought that it was a bit of a pain to have to re-do the test within 21 days, but at least it’s only a seal, no big banana.

We have a friend who used to be a mechanic for years, and now runs his own business selling tyres and things, though he doesn’t do car repairs.  I made my way directly to his garage for more information.

To be honest, I thought that since he does tyres and lights and wipers and all those small jobs, that he might be able to sort out a couple of seals at short notice, and I could start looking for a re-test date straight away.

He’s a lovely man, this mechanic.  His Nibs knows him better than I do, but we’re neighbours and acquaintances.  He saw me get a bit upset in his garage once, when he told me that I needed to change all my tyres, not just two of them.  I started to thrash myself about a bit and point at the sky, and accusing God of hating me.  He knows that I’ve a tendency to the dramatic.

He looked at me, looked at the NCT fail document, scratched his beard, looked at me again.

He made some slightly doctor-y noises like “hmmmm” and “riiiiight” that were making me start to feel anxious. Then he asked me whether I had His Nibs with me.

Very doctor-y indeed now.  It obviously wasn’t good news.

The fecking fecking fecking steering rack has to be replaced.

Because cars have become so ridiculous and complicated and nonsense-y, the seals cannot be replaced on the car, the whole steering rack has to be changed.

I bit my inner cheeks, quite hard, in an attempt not to start crying up in his face.  I spent all my money, like the Wild Rover of the song, on whiskey and beer, and books and earrings and a lovely mug, in Kerry last week.

I have no money for replacement steering racks.

But what can I do?  If I don’t get the NCT passed soon, the next one will be due, and the Gardaí will not be happy.

Of course in the old days I would have remained completely ignorant of the problem, and would have merrily driven until the steering rack keeled over completely, replacing it then.  At least I might have had the chance to recover from my Listowel based financial embarassment.

Does NCT stand for Nonsense Car Trouble?