Hell Freezing Over

I have a mantra that I try and say to myself a few times every morning. In fact I have a few of them, but most are for trivial things like reminding me to put deodorant on. This particular one however, is important, and it goes as follows-

“Don’t buy anymore French cars”.

I was thinking about its importance at around 4pm a few days ago, as I stood - freezing my extremities off – outside of a corrugated shack on an industrial estate somewhere near East Kilbride, a position and a discomfort I’d been maintaining since around 10 that morning.

The reason for this suffering ultimately belonged to a dodgy alternator on my oh-so-predictably Citroën Saxo (with all of its 30,000 miles on the clock), which had started playing up the previous evening. Initial costings to get the part replaced suggested £250(!) of my hard earned pounds would be required, but by putting my highly developed research skills to work (read: ability to type something into Google) I found a place that would do the job for less than a third of that price. Winner!

(Aside: When the car first broke down, and after I had exhausted my admittedly limited knowledge of the its workings (the fan belt looked ok), a rather helpful AA man came out to diagnose the problem and while there he showed me that by using a tire key to whack the alternator, I could make it work for 20 minutes or so before it conked out again. A genuine mechanical miracle! Unfortunately though, I had no plans to take any young ladies for a drive last night; but just think how cool I would have looked as I demonstrated my acute level of mechanical mastery! An opportunity lost I fear.)

Upon reaching the location however, it became clear that this was no Kwik-Fit. I had imagined that I would have to spend an hour or so in a cosy little waiting room, all three bar fires and old copies of Top Gear magazine, perhaps even a well used but serviceable coffee machine! Not so much. I should have maybe taken the hint when I first looked at the line of shivering customers ahead of me in the queue, all standing outside what looked like a dodgy garden shed. Cars were being worked on in the middle of the road, another missed hint.

The day passed by, along with any semblance of feeling that remained in my toes and fingers. The cost-benefit analysis that I’d been carrying out in my head had already shown that by 1pm I’d have gladly paid the extra £150 to avoid this hell; all that was keeping me here was a raw and burning stubbornness that the car wouldn’t beat me again. And the fact that the buggers had taken out the broken alternator at lunchtime so that they could recondition it and put it back in (so that’s how the can do it so cheap!). As the light faded, I wondered if this would how it all ended for me, squaring up to the naked might of nature, cursing the poor insulating properties of Converse trainers. Some six hours after my turning up, the methodical mechanic in his big woolly hat and overcoat wandered over to my car, re-connected the newly cleaned up alternator (a job which, infuriatingly, turned out to only take five minutes) and nodded breezily at me.

I handed over my £70 with barely functioning fingers. “Sorry about the wait mate” the methodical mechanic chuckled cheerfully. “No worries! Thanks very much!” I replied, my chapped and blue lips cracking painfully as I returned his smile.

Don’t buy anymore French cars.