Waiting to be converted
I will let you into a little secret.
At my age, there are few things that really scare me any more. I have grown hardened and there are few surprises left.
There are some things that scare the shite out of me from time to time, like dentists, or the fact that people can still manage to elect people like Harney into office, but on the whole I can take whatever life throws at me.
There is one thing though that reduces me to a quivering jelly.
It never fails.
The automatic car wash.
I brought that car for its annual scrub yesterday, and once again I was nearly reduced to tears. Once again I had to restrain myself from needing an urgent change of underwear. Once again I used a week’s supply of Prozac in five minutes.
The first bit is OK. The yoke starts churning and it gradually pisses all over the car. Having done that, it pisses all over the car all over again, only this time it uses some kind of foam. Having finished its urination, it then proceeds to flail the car with massive great rollers.
You would imagine that this is the frightening part? Visions of windscreen wipers being twisted into modern art? Visions of wing mirrors sailing off into the distance? Visions of car aerials being dispatched into the next parish?
Oh no.
It’s only warming up to the main event.
The dryer.
I sat there as this great chunk of steel warmed up for the main event. The roaring started, and then the yoke that looks like a guillotine came down. It starts off at the level of the front bonnet and then menacingly advances slowly, straight towards my face. Oh so slowly. I just know it isn’t going to adjust itself to the contours of the car.
It nudges upwards, just to tease me. It advances another few inches and the roar gets louder.
I wait.
I just know something is going to fail and the fucking thing is going to advance towards my face, neatly convert my car into a convertible and in the process remove my head.
It teases me each time. Just as it’s about to smash the windscreen it edges up another inch purely to lull me into a false sense of security. I know that this is the time. I know I am about to be decapitated and say a quiet prayer to whatever God happens to be lurking around the car wash. But the fucking thing likes playing with my nerves. It roars its way to the back of the car and then all the way back again.
It didn’t get me yesterday. I lived to tell the tale.
I just know the next time will be the last.
Sounds like my dog with the Hoover.
I know how the poor mutt feels. Next time you vacuum, put the poor mutt outside. If you ever vacuum, that is.
Put you outside. ‘Course, would probably have to scientificaly prove beyond any doubt that it actually was ‘outside’ and not ‘inside’ first.
Oh well, got some work to do for once.
Spice up the experience by leaving a window down a bit. In the back. So you have to scramble back t sort it out. Make sure the car has electric windows, so you can’t shut it easily. On of my little friends treated me to this thrill recently. Oh, it was deadly.
You could borrow a friend’s car to try it in first.
Interesting, what effects different things have on different people ..
When my kids were little, they used to love sitting, belted-up in the back of the car, whilst we went through the car wash .. They thought the whole thing was done specially for their entertainment ..
My own particular “bete-noir” is dogs .. I was badly bitten as a child & have retained a fear of them ever since .. Believe me, it took a massive amount of will power to board & travel in the rear of a Helicopter, with a sodding, great, slobbering “furry exocet” lying at my feet ..
Blackwatertown – Not a bad idea. I could drill a couple of holes in the floor [or just remove the chewing gun from the rust holes] for drainage and I ncould wash the inside of the car too?
Haddock – I understand peoples fear of dogs. I was attacked by an Alsation as a kid, and God knows how it didn’t scar me for life. On the contrary, I couldn’t imagine life without one now. Sandy has to go everywhere with me. Except the swimming pool. Actually, I don’t go near swimming pools, so that’s OK.
Wot, you’ve washed your car to come down to West Cork! Gawd you’ll look posh in these parts!
🙂
Ah, two days of pot-holes and cowshit and it’ll be just like a tractor again in no time!
Mick – I like to show up the natives. Doubtless by the time I cross the border into Cork it will be covered in its usual layers of dead flies, blood, cowshit and other detritus. Anyway, Herself wanted it washed.
I don’t drive so don’t have this experience from a driver’s point of view, but do remember it as a passenger and that’s bad enough. Horrible! I’m with you on this one…
Hate them nasty washes too. Which is why I wait untill the July Monsoons to wash the motor. A quick squirt of Lidl washing-up gunge along the top and sides just as the rains begin. It’s all energy-friendly too – which negates all your carbon guilt for having a car in the first place.
There’s also the risk of the shaggydogs sticking and blocking the doors and trapping you in there for ever and ever… or until the bloke behind you gets pissed off waiting.