Carol’s Column

Life’s just an old spark plug anyway ...

WHAT have I done to deserve this?

I’ve nurtured and treasured him. Loved, cherished, cleaned and cared for him — and in a moment of crisis — I find him wanting.

It’s more than any woman deserves.

Especially this one.

The whole sad and sorry story has become a nightmare.

“Get rid of him,” said my good friend Betty when she heard. “Life’s too short to waste. Find yourself a new one.” Good advice. I was tempted.

In fact, I found myself recounting this to my mother-in-law, when I noticed her jaw and false teeth dropping.

“Ma, I’m not talking about your son, I’m talking about Dubowitz,” I quickly reassured her.

“Dubowitz? Your lover?”

“I should be so lucky. No my car. Don’t you remember — I christened him Dubowitz when he arrived in my life, due to the fact that it was the only way I could remember his number — DBW 312 T?”

She nodded sagely, causing her teeth to clatter.

“Well, Dubowitz has been giving me terrible trouble lately. He’s unreliable. The other night, I was transporting 15 children to a party, and he broke down on the highway.”

She nodded wisely.

“A traffic officer came to my rescue, took one look at the car and wrote out a ticket for overloading. It’s not that I minded, it’s just that when he asked me my age, I told him.

“He gazed at me, his eyes widened and he said: ‘Gosh, I would never have believed it.’ OK, so I took off a few years, but I was still flattered.

“I smiled all the way home until I looked at the ticket and saw he’d written my age as 65!”

Meanwhile, I booked an appointment to have Dubowitz admitted to the garage.

Do you know, it is easier to get an appointment for open-heart surgery than it is to book a garage appointment for a car.

The first garage I phoned, laughed and said: “Madam, we can fit you in sometime towards the end of October.”

“October! I can’t wait until October. This is a crisis. Do you realise I do 73 lift schemes a week. I transport 368 children from here to Siberia and back again. I cannot be without a car.”

His answer was succinct.

“Tough,” he said and hung up.

After four attempts, I finally found a garage who was prepared to take Dubowitz. Or so I thought.

The voice at the other end sounded distinctly gin and minky. “What kind of car did you say it was?”

I told her.

“Pardon?”

I told her again. There was a definite pause.

“Oh, I didn’t know there were still any left on the road.” She wasn’t joking.

“I’m afraid our mechanics only treat Jags, Rovers and BMWs” she said haughtily.

“Treat? I don’t want anyone to treat my jalopy. I want it fixed in an ordinary, old-fashioned way.”

“Quaint,” she giggled, and hung up.

Eventually I found a garage who would take Dubowitz.

Small, and not quite as ritzy as the other, it had a reassuring, homely look about it.

“Don’t worry about your little car, we’ll fix it in a jiffy. Have it as right as rain in no time at all,” said the senior motor mechanic scratching his long, white locks and tugging at his even longer, whiter beard.

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, if you stand up, I’ll show you,” I said chirpily.

“I am standing,” he retorted. My luck, I thought to myself, I have to get the only Rip van Winkel midget motor mechanic in the business.

I picked him up and showed him the inside of the engine.

“Look, I think my radiator’s got a slight leak,” I said carefully.

“What makes you think that?” he asked penetratingly.

“Well, it’s always empty.”

“Like a woman,” he chortled.

If You really are up there, I thought to myself looking heavenwards, did You have to give me the only male chauvinist Rip van Winkel motor mechanic in Johannesburg? Haven’t I been punished enough?

It seemed I hadn’t. After prodding and poking around the engine for what must have been hours, in fact it was only one, it just seemed longer because my arms were tired and he was getting heavy, he said imperiously: “Put me down.”

“Your car’s in a bad way,” he said unemotionally.

“He is?”

“He is. He needs a new radiator, a main crankshaft rebore; the head needs skimming and it could also do with a cylinder rebore and new rings.”

“But I can’t afford all that,” I wailed in despair. I was upset, you understand. That’s almost as much as a new car — can’t you leave out the big stuff and just fix the radiator.”

“OK,” he agreed, “we’ll do a quickie on your car.”

I sighed with relief. “So when can I fetch him?”

He consulted his little black book. “In December.”

“But that’s in three months!”

“So, you think we do careless work here?”

“Listen, a radiator’s not a big job, I could probably do it myself in a morning,” I replied urgently.

A mistake. His eyes flashed, his beard stood up on end: “So, you think you can fix your car better than me, huh, then take it away, go fix it.” He thrust the keys into my hand.

“No, please,” I thrust them back at him. “I want you to fix my car, I know you’ll do a good job.”

We argued for half an hour, the keys flying backwards and forwards. Eventually, he agreed to keep Dubowitz for three days.

That was three weeks ago.

Every day I phone him. We talk about many things. The referendum, the constitution, backache, rugby, kids, dogs, even lousy plumbing, before we eventually get to Dubowitz. “And how’s that little old radiator coming on today?” I ask merrily. It’s undignified to plead.

“Ah, yes, I was just saying, as soon as we’ve cracked the Jag, we must get going on your radiator. I promise you’ll have it soon ...”

On Thursday, he assured me the spare part was on its way and I’d have my car back any day.

“Where’s it coming from, Australia via China?” I asked facetiously.

“Funnily enough, yes,” he replied.

An intelligent, male chauvinist, Rip van Winkel midget motor mechanic.

Yesterday I received a great shock.

He returned Dubowitz.

I went for a drive. The radiator still leaks.

“Aren’t you a little extreme?” said my husband only this morning, “booking Prof Kingsley for a bypass op on a car.”

“He promised he’d let me have my car back in a few days,” I replied smugly. “There’s a hospital crisis, they’ve a shortage of beds. They can’t keep Dubowitz for longer.”

So it goes.

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