On closer inspection...
By Laurence McKeown
I took my car for an MOT test last week, as is the norm here
every five years unless you are blessed with having a DLA
(Disability Living Allowance) model which means you never drive
anything more than a few years old. It was an early appointment,
8.20am. On my way to the inspection centre I had to pull into a
garage and do the customary underbody wash. It makes the
inspectors feel that you regard the examination with some degree
of seriousness. Not to follow such protocol would be like walking
into an academic examination without pen or pencil and not even
bothering to ask if you could borrow one from someone. I felt I
didn't want to antagonise the examiners any more than I had to.
yhow, I set to the task and ten minutes later had a spotlessly
clean vehicle both underbody and on top. It gleamed. Actually I
felt fairly clean myself, or not clean really but that feeling
you have when you walk out of the shower - wet. The heavens had
opened just after I had begun my cleansing operation. So, I
arrived at the depot wet and uncomfortable.
Thankfully I didn't have long to wait before I was signalled into
bay number 4 and the large steel shutters closed behind me. This
was it. There was no going back. I've often regarded as con-jobs
those pre-MOT tests that garages advertise because not only do
you pay the garage but you also pay the MOT fee. Now if anyone is
going to find a fault with your car it will be the MOT
inspectors, so why not leave it to them. That's the theory, but
sitting in the queue I began to think it might not have been such
a bad idea to let someone give my car the once-over beforehand
just to check for any stupid faults such as brake lights,
indicators and the like. Too late now though.
The car in front was being examined in the closest detail. The
inspector stooped, felt under the wings, opened the doors, turned
the steering wheel and all manner of things. It was only when he
came to look in the boot that I realised he sported one of the
most expansive `Watergates' I have seen in a long time.
A Watergate, for those who do not know about these things, is a
cover-up. In this instance it refers to those who are, shall we
say, somewhat short of hair on top so they use what they have to
hide the bare spots. Well this one was a cracker. The `shade' was
at the back of his head, running horizontally in line with the
top of his ears and all of the hair above that demarcation was
combed forward. I was fascinated. From a full frontal view I had
never guessed that my senses were being duped. It was such an
intricate piece of work, closely interwoven, everything in place.
Normal.
I began to ponder such questions as to how long it would take
each morning to prepare such an exhibit? At what un-Godly hour
must this man rise to complete the task? Did the masterpiece
remain in place throughout the day or did it require renovations
at periodic intervals?
My thoughts then turned to how I had been so easily deceived. I
would never have known otherwise if I had not been able to `go
behind the scenes', as it were. I would have been totally taken
in by the image presented to me. This led me to ponder events
current at the time. We had been told at first it was the
paparazzi, then the speed, then the drink, the car, then back to
the paparazzi. All very neat. Everything appeared normal, if
tragic. It was the `Watergate' before my eyes that made me
wonder, what if? I mean, where once there had been a `loose
cannon', a source of embarrassment to royalty, there was now an
icon. Where once there had been a thorn in the side of the arms
manufacturers there was now a saint. And no danger of the heir to
the English throne ever having an Arab moslem as step-father.
I was waved out of the depot, a slip of paper in my hand saying
my vehicle was roadworthy for another year. I breathed in the
fresh air. Thoughts turned to breakfast and freshly brewed strong
coffee. Normal things again. Shucks, maybe it was just the fumes
in the place.