The Service – Part Two

I had spent the week foolishly believing that each time I unlocked my car, the door would open, and each time I had to walk around and shuffle across the passenger seat. If the battery in the key worked then my parade around the silver machine would be retired. I was making my return visit to last week’s scene, the scene where I parted with a large amount of cash that probably exceeded the value of the silver machine. The door was to be fixed, the rear windscreen wiper to be perked up and the new rear brakes fitted. At least today I knew what awaited me, I knew that there was no more money to be paid. In a non driving music cliché, Born in the USA was my album of choice, couldn’t get more blue-collar than mechanics, although these ones wore black. As classic British weather goes, it was grey, uncertain whether it wanted to rain or just envelop the land in a giant bland blanket.

The Service – Part One

It happened again. My silver machine had once more displayed its sluggish prowess and nearly left me floundering in a precarious position. I was experiencing the joys of driving a decade old car, a car that had never been blessed with power. Although it had been suggested by my dad some months previous that the car may need a service, I resisted the financial attack until absolutely necessary. The time though had come, struggling to overtake a cyclist up a hill was both embarrassing and worrying.