Before Christmas, there was a period when neither of our cars was roadworthy: my wife’s old Mini wouldn’t start and the other car failed its MOT. During this period, Farouk the mechanic let it be known that he had a reliable estate for sale: 10 years old, one careful owner, £5,000. My wife offered him £4,000.
After a protracted period of negotiation to which I was not privy, they agreed to split the difference. On Thursday afternoon, my wife brings me to Farouk’s garage to look at the car again. We take turns driving it cautiously around the block.
“I’m not used to brakes that work,” I say during my turn.
“I know,” my wife says.
“You don’t care that it’s automatic?” I say.
“I really don’t mind,” she says. As I turn left, I become aware of an alarming sensation.
“Something’s happening to my ass!” I say. “It’s on fire!”
“It’s got heated seats,” she says, jabbing a button on the dashboard. “But you don’t have to have it up so high.”
“Heated seats?” I say. “We are definitely buying this, by the way.”
On a cold and rainy morning two days later, we are back at Farouk’s to finalise the purchase. Farouk is alone in the garage, in a beret and scarf, working under the bonnet of a car. “I sent someone out to get a second key made,” he says. “He’s not back yet.”
“‘I’ve insured it,” my wife says, “but I couldn’t tax it.”
“You do it online,” Farouk says. “It’s very simple.”
“It wouldn’t let me,” she says.
“You just need the number I gave you,” Farouk says.
“It says I have to go to the post office,” she says.
“I can do it for you right now if you like,” he says.
“I’m happy to be proved wrong,” my wife says in a tone that suggests there is always a first time.
We follow Farouk into his office. He sits down at his computer and hits a few keys. Nothing happens. “You just enter the number I gave you,” he says.
“Nothing is happening,” my wife says, pointing at the screen.
“I don’t understand,” he says, typing.
It becomes clear the batteries in Farouk’s keyboard are dead. We find two new ones in a drawer. Farouk begins to fill out a form on the DVLA website, very slowly.
“I can’t bear this,” my wife says. “Let me sit there.”
“Fine,” Farouk says, standing up. “You do it.”
“Otherwise we’ll be here all day,” she says.
Farouk turns to me. “It’s like I’m her employee,” he says.
“Welcome to my world,” I say.
“Am I the new keeper?” my wife says.
“Yes,” Farouk says, scrutinising the green form on his desk. “You tick that box, then you put in this 11-digit number.”
“It’s asking for a 12-digit number,” my wife says.
Farouk begins counting the digits, very slowly. “Eleven,” he says.
“I told you it didn’t work,” my wife says.
“There,” I say, “under ‘new keeper’s details’. Is that a 12-digit number?” My wife types in the number and is permitted to continue with the process.
“That’s it,” Farouk says.
“So you did give me the wrong number,” my wife says.
“It was the other one,” he says.
“I want to hear you say the words,” my wife says. “I want to hear you say, ‘I gave you the wrong number.’”
Farouk turns to me. “What about coffee?” he says. “Do you want a coffee?”
Within a few minutes, the car is taxed and paid for, although it’s apparent the guy with the key will not be back any time soon.
“Never mind,” my wife says. “We can pick it up tomorrow.”
“By the way, I fixed the Mini!” Farouk says brightly. “You can take it now.”
My face falls a little: owning the Mini has been much less burdensome during the month it’s been in Farouk’s care. Suddenly, we find ourselves in the idiotic position of owning three vehicles.
“We really need to get rid of the other one first,” I say.
“I’ll buy it off you,” Farouk says. “It’s a very good car.”
