I’m not actually sure why that is.
I mean my dad was a panelbeater back in the day and had his own business from the age of 19. Consequently, I spent a good deal of my formative years around cars.
As a youngster, before football and girls entered the mix, I was able to tell you which car was coming up the street based purely on the noise of their engine.
Of course, that was in the good old days when I lived in England and everyone drove a Vauxhall, Ford or Austin. Occasionally somebody would turn up at dad’s garage with a French Renault or something equally exotic sounding.
It took me a few years before I worked out the owner wasn’t really called Flash Git.
This week, 50-plus years on from those days, it’s maintenance week and Dad is long gone and thus unable to guide me through the necessary things you have to do to ensure your four-wheeled pride and joy keeps running.
Luckily, Mrs P is an expert in such matters. Well, at least she says she is.
From what I can work out, this claim seems to be based purely on the fact with her dad well and truly off the scene at a very young age, her older brother would get her out of bed early most Saturday mornings and make her check her tyre pressure, oil and water levels and all the other things required for stress-free motoring.
So, I’m required to do the maintenance thing on our new(ish) car to keep it running. And to keep the peace.
Now, just so you know I’m not a complete idiot in these matters, I should explain that ordinarily I would put the said vehicle into our local automotive outlet for a regular service. No stress. Minimum fuss and anguish. Sorted. Done.
These days we are of no fixed abode and we’ve decided we can keep a few bob in our bank accounts if we learn to do it ourselves.
Thus, it was with those savings at the forefront of my mind that I lifted the bonnet of my vehicle the other day.
What greeted me was a little surprising, to say the least.
I won’t try to baffle you with tech speak – naturally – so bear with me when I explain what I saw. Basically nothing. Except very orderly, clean black covers and hoses plus the occasional bit that looked like it would move very fast and chop your hands off if you got too close. So I didn’t.
I couldn’t see any radiator, spark plugs, alternator, thingybob or whatchamacallit. All items I remembered from back when cars were simple under the hood. Oh, and there was no frying pan-shaped thingy either. I’m sure old car experts will know what I mean.
I’m betting they were all there. Somewhere. At least I think they were. But obviously what is under the bonnet of a new car these days has changed a lot since I last took a gander.
Thankfully, Mrs P arrived to save the day. Panicking, I was able to tell her everything looked fine – which wasn’t a lie; the plastic covers did indeed look lovely – but I would just check the oil level.
She seemed impressed.
I was just relieved I’d spotted something I recognised. The good old dipstick. Or as I like to call it, My Saviour.
With great dexterity and solemnity, I pulled the said stick from its hiding place, wiped it clean with a rag, reinserted and removed it again before announcing confidently, “It’s fine”.
I was just about to pop the hood back down again when Mrs P pointed out another dipstick.
“What’s that one?” she inquired.
Bugger. It had the same handle as the other dipstick but I didn’t have the foggiest what it was.
Panicking, I went through the possibilities.
Maybe this model of my car has two dipsticks? Surely I would have heard about it, wouldn’t I? Even with my limited automotive knowledge.
“I think it’s to do with the transmission,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “I’m pretty sure the three litre model with the overdrive has it so I’m guessing this one does too.”
Of course, I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about but fortunately Mrs P bought it and left me to it.
Which was really a dumb thing for her to do. Because I pulled it out.
Turns out it was quite a long bit of wire with a plastic bulb-type thing on the end. No idea what it was. All I can tell you is it wouldn’t go back in. Not then. Not after 30 minutes of trying. It would go so far but then needed to turn a corner inside the tube and I couldn’t get the angle right. It sat there six inches from being fully “home”.
Eventually, Mrs P came out to see what was taking me so long and I had to explain.
Thankfully, before I had to come up with another excuse, she “gave” me the reason.
“It looks like your hand won’t bend that way,” she said sympathetically.
She was partly right. My recent hand surgery has made it difficult to get an angle on some things like this. I gladly accepted the escape route.
“You’d better take it into the dealer,” said Mrs P. And that’s what I did.
Unsurprisingly, the expert took exactly 7.2 seconds to slide the piece of wire back into place, leaving me to depart red-faced and vowing never to touch anything I don’t recognise under the bonnet again.
As I drove back to the loving embrace of She Who Must Be Obeyed, I was reminded of my dad who, all those years ago when I had my first job and got my first car, reminded me to check the oil.
I did and found it rather low.
Thankfully, Dad came to the rescue. There was a half-full container in the garage just inside the door on the shelf on the wall. I could have that as long as I replaced it.
So I quickly grabbed it. Poured it in the car and went on my motoring way.
Now that I think about it, I’m ashamed to say I don’t think I ever did actually replace it. Sorry Dad.
A week or so later and I emerged from my teenage bedroom one Saturday morning to find Dad in his painting clobber.
He’s going to stain the front fence. It’s a job he’s been threatening to do for ages. Only thing is he can’t find the black stain he had put aside for the job.
He was sure it was in a container in the garage just inside the door on the shelf on the wall.
