Saturday, 29 November 2014

At the Car Wash (Woooh!)

Having bought my son a car three months ago, we decided that it might be time to give it a clean.  So we set off for the car wash.  I don’t mean the local automated jobbie with the whirring brushes.  No, I’m talking about visiting one of the numerous ‘foreign’ outlets that have sprung up in every other car park all over the UK.
          ‘Take a right here,’ I said to Rob.
          We bounced gently over a concrete ramp and formed an orderly line.  I immediately had the soundtrack to Car Wash go off in my head.  And no I don’t mean Christina Aguilera’s and Missy Elliot’s cover.  I’m old enough to remember the original version by Rose Royce. 
          ‘Blimey, this place must make a fortune,’ said Rob.  ‘We’re ten cars behind and they’re all paying cash.’
          ‘Excellent place to do a spot of money laundering if you’re so inclined,’ I observed.  Not that I am.  I don’t have thousands of pounds of ‘dirty money’ that needs cleaning.  I don’t even have any semi-dirty money.  In fact, much of the time I don’t have any money at all.
          ‘Can you pay for this?’ asked Rob.
          ‘Sure,’ I replied, reaching for my purse.  ‘After all, I pay your car insurance, tax and petrol.’
          ‘Ooh, I’m glad you said that word.’
          ‘What word?’
          ‘Petrol.  Look.  The tank’s down to a quarter.’
          See?  No wonder my purse is always empty.
          Behind us a sudden duet of horns broke out.  I craned my neck around.  Two drivers were having a row about who was next in line.  One of them was giving it some verbal too.
          ‘Don’t you give me a hard time, mate,’ yelled a balding fatty to an indignant little man in specs.  ‘I had a belly full of it yesterday with the Missus and dealing with Black Friday.’
          Okay.  So the balding fatty was clearly all queued out.  The little man in specs buzzed up his driver’s window to mutter unheard oaths behind the safety of his locked door.
          ‘Gosh, is it always like this at the car wash?’ asked Robbie, eyes wide.
          ‘No.  Usually I drive straight in.  But then I’ve never come at the weekend before.’  Clearly at the weekend it’s the world and his wife visiting the car wash.
          At that point my son’s car was drenched by the pressure wash.  Moments later two giant sponges were whizzing over the windscreen making soap trails.  Behind us more horn blowing had broken out.  Clearly it wasn’t just the sponges getting in a lather.
          ‘Wow, there’s some really impatient motorists about,’ said Rob.
          ‘There certainly are,’ I observed.
          Needless to say my son’s car is now spotlessly clean and I’m sure it will be well into the New Year before we visit the local car wash again, but preferably not on a weekend.
          Which reminds me.  What did the impatient helicopter say to the mechanic?  Chop-chop… 

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