Our car just died. Well, not
actually quite dead but it is critically ill. It has gone in for major surgery
at Dr. Tan’s clinic in Sentul.
On Monday morning I was
expecting a chap to come around and assess the car for a potential trade-in
value. We were seriously thinking of getting a new one.
Our car was made in 2002, we
bought it as a reconditioned model from Japan in 2008. We love it. It is
magnificently comfortable with plenty of power and room for most of our (large)
family.
But it has been giving a bit
of trouble recently and so, we thought, the time has come to say goodbye to our
faithful friend.
About two hours before the
assessor was due to arrive I went out and started the car’s engine. Make sure
everything was ready for the big occasion.
I had previously emptied the
car out—it is stunning how much stuff accumulates over the years. I bet your
house is the same if you have lived there for a good while.
After a short while I noticed
that the water temperature gauge was climbing up. And up. And up.
Uh, oh! Now would be a good
time to kill the engine. The temperature wasn’t going up fast but it was going
high.
Opened the bonnet (hood, to
my US friends) to be greeted by clouds of steam hissing away.
Not good.
Took the top off the radiator
header tank. It was empty. Filled it and put the top back on. Left it for a few
minutes and opened it up again. It was empty. Repeated this trick three times
and on the fourth I left it alone and went indoors.
The next morning Dr. Tan and
one of his medical staff arrived and examined the engine. Judging by the skin
of foam appearing on the top of the water in the radiator—that took some
filling, by the way, it looked like there were internal injuries involved.
They took my beloved away to
the clinic where major surgery is to be performed. A new engine and gearbox;
new shock absorbers and a new start computer. Perhaps new wipers, too, to clear
away the tears of parting.
BOM* and I sat holding hands,
worrying about our dear friend and colleague. So many journies to so many
places with just us and, in the past, with Mum, too.
I suggested that it was the
car’s way of telling us that it didn’t want to leave us. It was begging to
stay.
We talked about it, BOM and
I, and decided that it could stay. Dr. Tan said that it would be good as new
after treatment and a little tender loving care in the clinic.
This afternoon, my son,
Zakwan, took me to visit the car. We took the opportunity to put four new tyres
on his Honda while we were there.
The medical staff were
clustered around pampering it and cosseting it.
It will take, they assure me,
a week for the full treatment to take effect. They suggested that we go home
and leave the car with them; it is in good hands—safe hands.
It was clear we should only
get in the way.
We put a deposit down for
the treatment and, with a feeling of sadness, we left it there. Alone.
Later, we telephoned the
assessor and explained that there would be no need to come and look at the car.
We had decided that it would
be better off with us than with some stranger.
The new car can wait until
this one is ready to go.
I think I should send it a ‘Get
Well’ card.
What do you think? It couldn’t
hurt, could it?
*BOM = Beloved Of Mine (my
lovely wife).
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