I finally got my cracked windscreen replaced today. This is the same crack which occurred way back in January, when I was driving to Liverpool for a third interview for a job I wasn’t even sure I even wanted. I remember mentioning my uncertainties about the job to friends and family, but I opted to follow their advice, as they maintained, “you might as well go to the interviews, it won’t cost you anything.” This, of course, turned out to be bollocks. Firstly, I had to pay petrol for three trips to Liverpool (£60). Then there was the City Centre parking (£12). I also had to prepare a presentation for the interview, but since my printer cartridge ran out I had to buy 2 new ones especially (another £40). And to put the icing on the cake, my windscreen got cracked by a stone as I cautiously trailed behind a lorry on the motorway. So with the £75 insurance excess I’ve just shelled out for my windscreen replacement, I’m still paying for that damn interview now! It currently tallies up to £186.00. Even if there had been no monetary payments involved it still cost three days holiday. I shall never listen to my friends and family again. They are clearly delusional fools.
It is shocking to think that I have literally been staring at a crack for almost a year (and not in a good way). I probably wouldn’t have realised this had I not recorded the original incident in my blog. These writings only serve to confirm my suspicions that I am procrastinating fool. I have had the crack so long now that I have now become accustomed to the sense of dread and fear whenever I am about to drive over a speed bump, because of that advert where some driver’s windscreen crack gets bigger after doing so. Incidentally this never actually happened to me on a single occasion, but I never failed to expect it to. That’s the power of adverts I suppose.
The Autoglass man was due to arrive between 9 and 1, meaning I had to sacrifice my weekend lie-in to ensure I was awake and ready in time for his arrival. I knew he would not be here for 9 and that I would be lolling about for a good couple of hours, but I do like to be considerate and prepared. Not that preparation EVER goes to plan. He arrived about half eleven and typically did so right at the very moment I had commenced opening my morning bowels. There was a moment of sheer chilling panic when the door-bell rang. I knew I had reached the point of no return and all I could do was sit helplessly on the porcelain. Luckily my Dad was on hand to answer the door. By my calculations this is the 52nd advantage of living with my Dad that I have counted so far.
I finished my ablutions and went outside to meet him. By this time, Dad had already made him a cup of tea, meaning there was very little material left for me to greet him with. I stood awkwardly on the pavement for a bit, struggling to think of small talk to engage him whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Beyond the sanctity of tea-making (which had already been covered) I never really know what the social protocol is when somebody comes to your house to do a job. Is it polite to try and chat, or is that irritating and distracting? Is it best to simply make tea and then leave them to do their job, or is this seen as stand-offish and rude? Eventually he asked me, “Is this your first car son?” From a comment like this, it is natural to have assumed he thought I must have been rather young. Maybe shaving my goatee and losing my paedo-chic had given a fresh, youthful appearance. But in my heart I suspect he drew this conclusion because I was a man who appeared to still be living with his Dad; and that since I drive a Nissan Micra, it was clear I have not progressed as far on the automobile aspirations ladder than a man of my age probably should have. So in other words, if I appeared young, it was mainly for the wrong and slightly depressing reasons, all borne of my own stunted social development.
I went back inside and left him to work on his own.
Half an hour later, the windscreen had been fully replaced. The evil Autoglass man summoned me to give me advice. In order to allow the adhesive on my new glass a chance to stick, I should not drive my car for the next hour. I must not go through a car wash within the next 24 hours. And for the next day or so I should not exceed 50 m.p.h. He gave me a wink when he told me the last one, adding “not driving 100 m.p.h. like you usually would”. Clearly he had concluded my mistaken youthfulness would inevitably mean I was some sort of Nissan Micra-driving boy racer. Since it is unlikely he will ever glimpse my birth certificate or experiences being my passenger, he will never appreciate how hilariously off the mark his assumptions were. My only hope is that one day I will glimpse his horrible, patronising face in my rear-view mirror, seething with frustration as he crawls on along the road behind me, waiting for an opportune moment to overtake.
