Take cars for example, I used to dabble in the motor trade and I was amazed how people would really stretch themselves to buy a later model when the one they were driving was perfectly serviceable. I can’t bring myself to subscribe to this way of thinking, the cars I buy are always diesel, usually very high mileage, or accident damaged and repaired etc, but I buy them much cheaper than forecourt prices. I usually own them for between 2 and 4 years and then sell them on; often I get my money back, or make a small profit
The car I’m driving at the moment is a 6-year-old Citroen Xantia; I bought it almost 3 years ago for £2400. It’s fast, comfortable, reliable and has all the extras. It had only done 30,000 when its original owner altered its aerodynamic qualities a little during a drunken altercation with a lamppost. The salvage company did a beautiful repair job, only someone with an experienced eye would ever know. Never the less, the fact that it has been damaged and repaired is recorded, reputable sellers are obliged to make you aware if this, and as a consequence, it’s retail value drops by about 50%
All things considered, I couldn’t really grumble when, after 100,000 miles of carefree motoring, I heard rattling noise coming from under the bonnet. I had a quick look and diagnosed the problem as a worn bush in the pulley that sits on the end of the crankshaft. I’m a reasonably competent mechanic, but to attempt to do your own repairs on modern vehicles these days is folly, once upon a time you could mend almost anything with a pair of pliers and a bit of wire, but now you need specialised tools and equipment for even the most basic tasks, so I resigned myself to a visit to my local garage.
A very wealthy old man owns my local garage, its no wonder that he’s wealthy; he charges an arm and a leg for everything, plus VAT! To make matters worse, the mechanics that work for him are miserable, surly, idle, and rude. I hate the thought of spending my money with them.
The only other garage in the vicinity is ‘Steve’s Autos’, a one-man show housed in an old Nissan hut. Steve, a Mexican immigrant with very little English, is the sort of guy it’s impossible not to like, unassuming, polite, cheerful, smiley, and cheap. The only problem is, he’s a terrible mechanic. It was no contest; I nursed the car over to Steve’s.
“Khello Meester Mickhardy,” Steve flashed me a huge, tea stained smile and helped me from my car, supporting me by placing his oily hand beneath my arm, as you would an invalid. “What I can doing for ju?” I explained the problem, and he lifted my bonnet and peered underneath. He stood there for quite some time, rubbing his chin until it was covered with oil, occasionally cocking his head to one side, dog like, listening intently. Finally he turned back to me, wiped his hands on the front of his overalls and said, “Come, we have cup of tea.”
After showing me to my seat on a bench that was constructed from old railway sleepers and coated with several years’ worth of grease and grime, Steve went to brew up on a matching table. Eventually he handed a huge white mug of washing up bowl proportions, I took the steaming vessel with both hands, marvelling at the intricate pattern of cracks and oily thumbprints. Steve sat down beside me, putting his own mug to one side; he rolled a cigarette from evil looking tobacco and liquorice paper.
We drank together in silence for a while, then, protocol observed, he gave me the benefit of his wisdom. “Ees not pulley is problem,” he announced, blowing out a lungful of acrid smoke. “What ees, er I mean what is it then?” I enquired. “Timing belt tensioner!,” he replied, pronouncing the words slowly, but in perfect English
Steve made a telephone call to order the necessary parts; presumably the bloke on the other end of the line was a Mexican too, because it only took a moment. “Jur car she be ready in two days, we waiting for parts” he told me, “She is ok, Ju can leave her here.” I rang Mrs Red to come and collect me, and after wiping my hands on the front of my shirt as a gesture of friendship, I shook his hand and left
As it turned out, it wasn’t the “Timing belt tensioner” that was making the noise, it was the bush in the pulley that sits on the end of the crank. Steve had ordered the wrong part and caused another two days delay, he apologised profusely, but, he stored my car for four days, charged me only for the cost of the part plus £15 for his labour, made me a memorable cup of tea, and he made me smile.
This week has been one of those weeks, my lawnmower broke down and after a long wait and a lot of swearing, I realised that the manufacturers had supplied me with the wrong part. My pickup was broken into, and after waiting until after the holidays for a multinational company to come out and fit a replacement window, they arrived with the wrong part. One of lights in the ceiling of my caravan exploded, I had to send to York for a new one, despite quoting the serial number and having them read it back to me, they sent me the wrong part, I didn’t get so much as a “Sorry” from any of them
If these guys want any more of my cash, I suggest they invest in some two gallon mugs, and remember to call me "Meester".