Testing the Pass

    < Mine’s the blue one

It's that time of year again. The one moment I dread more than the dentists, an inoculation and a work appraisal rolled together. That is MoT* time. I have a love hate relationship with cars. I love to drive them, to look at them, to feel them! but hate all the stuff goes along with keeping them on the road. My car history is as chequered as the flag. So far, every car has left my hands as a pile of junk, mainly on the back of a low loader, or occasionally as a part exchange, where some auto supermarket knocks off 1000 quid, that they would have discounted anyway, just for the privilege of taking out finance at their extortionate interest rates. On top of that, I have at various times, had a wheel fall off one, another set on fire and an engine totally seize at 50 miles an hour due to bring completely oil free. You see, my tried and tested and evidently failed method of car maintenance, is to turn up the radio so I can't hear the knocking noises anymore. Hence, I dread MoT time. I’m always expecting an insincerely glum mechanic with the to return from the test wielding a red ink filled form that turns out to be a bank balance draining list of auto woes. This is usually accompanied by that slow head shake and intake of breath that builders and mechanics use to convey bad and ultimately expensive news.

For the last few years I have a second reason to dread the test in that garages are grease filled black holes of masculinity. I am as likely to pass in this environment as a wolf in a flock. I usually find myself being referred to as mate, I I have known to subconsciously de-evolve into my historical maleness of old. I have even found myself grunting in harness with the mechanics with phrases such as “Hhhrrruuuurrrr Its all those speed humps that have buggered the shocks. Hhhuurrrurrr I blame the PC brigade** ” Well, this time I was deternimed not to fall into this trap, and in the words of every Big Brother contestant “just be myself”.

Tuesday morning found me sat in the reception / waiting room, pending the results from the probing of my Kia Shuma ***. I had dressed deliberately in a skirt and high heeled boots, rather than my usual trousers and flats for a working day. It was as if I needed to reaffirm my femininity. I watched as a string of customers came in dropping off and picking up their cars. A typical conversation went “I’m dropping off the red Modeo, mate”, “ Thanks mate, it will be ready Friday, early doors”,”Cheers Mate”, “Will you be paying by cash or check mate ?”. OK I made up the check mate gag, but you get my drift. That morning everybody was everybody else’s mate. What a friendly place!

I saw the mechanic who had been working on my car appear behind the reception desk with his sheaf of results. I tried to read his face, but could spot no tell. He would have made a superb, but oily poker player. “Miss Harvey?”, he said looking up. “All done, love”. “Has it passed ?” I replied with hope over expectation. “Yes, no problems. Just an advisory, your brake pads will last about another 5 k” . I almost grabbed the keys and paperwork with rude haste, wanting to get out in case he changed his mind. “Hang on sweetheart, I just need to take a few details”, and with only a short ado, I was away. I guess as a Guardian reader I shouldn’t approve of being called sweetheart and love, but for me, that morning it felt like I had entered the lions den and passed as an antelope, and still got away unscathed. It may have been true that the mechanic had read my gender status, and he was just a well adjusted and frankly nice man, but without doing him a disservice I choose to believe that I had both, passed the test, and passed the pass.,

* A mandatory annual check that your car is road legal.

** I would love to see a Politically Correct brigade, charging into battle considering the enemies feelings through the use of appropriate language.

*** A fine example of South Korean craftsmanship  of cheap plastics.