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The Tea Maker
Why am I never happy when I have to take my car for a small repair? The answer is simple – mechanics.
When the lights on my dashboard start flashing and a recorded voice tells me, “Your car is knackered, please seek immediate assistance,” I instinctively know that I’ll be in tears by the end of the day. And it’s all because of mechanics. Mechanics were put on Earth to upset me.
“What’s wrong?” they ask, so I try to explain, taking as much time as I think necessary to paint a clear and detailed picture of the signs and symptoms.
As I do this, the mechanic won’t look at me. He’ll look down and start to shake his head very, very slowly. He’ll purse his lips for effect and his face will adopt a look of deep concern or maybe anxiety. Sometimes, when they’re doing all of these other things, they might even squeeze in a smile, which is actually more like a smirk.
When I finish giving them the facts of the case, they respond in one of three ways.
They increase their look of deep concern or anxiety but remain totally, completely, utterly silent. Then they start to shuffle papers around. This isn’t necessarily a bad sign. It could simply mean that I haven’t given them all the information they need and they’re trying to find a check list to make sure I’ve covered everything. In other cases, it could be a bad sign. They may not have understood a word I’ve said or they may be thinking of some way to inform me that they know absolutely nothing about cars. Either way, the look on their faces at this point is telling me that they are feeling pain and that I should also be feeling pain.
The second type of response I get is sometimes comforting for me and sometimes very stressful, depending on how confidently the mechanic delivers his lines. What he does is… he takes a stab in the dark and makes a wild guess, “Oh that’ll be the bearings” he’ll say, or “That sounds like the carburettor to me” or whatever. I always watch the mechanic’s eyes when he makes his guess. If he looks straight into my eyes, he’s probably close. But if he avoids my gaze, his guess is probably no better than my own, and that’s usually useless.
But, then there’s the third response. The worst of all. The killer blow. The one I know will cost me a fortune. Again, there’s no eye contact and when a mechanic delivers this line, it’s always in two parts. The first part is said slowly, worryingly, sympathetically, “Mmmmm. Sounds bad”. Then, almost immediately, he’ll perk up and sound confidently enthusiastic when he adds, “But we won’t really know how bad until we’ve had a look at it, will we?”
By this time, I’ve probably been on the premises for no more than 10 minutes and I’m not in a happy mood. I’m obviously terrified of upsetting him and equally terrified of acting as if I don’t care. Either approach could mean a large, or larger, bill.
And that’s the most frightening thing of all when I’m getting my car repaired. Mechanics can’t estimate, even if their lives depended on it. It doesn’t matter what they say it’ll cost, they’re never even close to what it actually costs. How come? I mean, if they can guess what the problem is… and they’ve fixed what is a pretty average problem half a million times before for other drivers… how come they don’t get anywhere close with their estimates?
“£250? Did I say £250? Sorry, pal, but it’s worked out at £690.”
“£690? Well, you never know until you actually get under the bonnet and have a close look at things. That’s when you spot the real trouble. That’s when you realise it’s not a simple thing after all.” No, that’s when the £690 turns into £1,478.40… +vat. There’s no point arguing, is there? If I want my car back, I pay up.
It’s become so bad, I have this recurring dream about mechanics. I see them at their annual conference in their oily overalls, with their filthy fingernails sticking out from their greasy sleeves. I see the chairman of the Chartered Institute of Professional Mechanics winding things up with a little competition. He’s holding up a huge jar of Smarties and inviting all the mechanics to “estimate” how many Smarties are in the jar. The jar is huge – about the size of an average family car. There must be 300 million Smarties in there. The chairman then makes the big announcement.
“And the winner is… Billy Smith. Billy gets the first prize with his very close estimate of… 27. Well done Billy.”
Mechanics? Don’t talk to me about mechanics.
The Tea Maker
PS: You can comment on this story by emailing me at [email protected] and I’ll respond to your emails in next week’s column. Your email address will never be published.
