Hark unto me sinners and unbelievers and people who own cardigans, for today I have been mostly praying to the MOT Gods, beseeching them to be kind and not wrathful. To bestow their bounteous favours upon mine five year old Renault Clio and not let the damn thing fail and cost a bloody fortune to fix. Verily I divined the portents this morning (three sheep on the front lawn, which I chased off dressed only in mine holy garments – in this case a blue towelling bathrobe that’s seen better days – as the little sods were eating the roses) and was sore afraid that the high priest at the temple of Kwik Fit would maketh the sound of hissing whilst looking upon mine Clio and say unto me, “Oooooh, goona cost ya, mate!” But lo, it came to pass that the mighty Gods of MOT did look kindly upon mine Clio and when the high priest didst phone up at half four (having started an hour later than the time of mine appointment due to having to exorcise a Citroen Zara Picasso that did smell mightily of wet Labrador) he didst say, “Well, there’s only two things wrong with it, and of them’s the number plates, the other is the fact your roll bar isn’t connected to the car any more.” And lo it came to pass, once I didst regain consciousness, that this is but a trifle to fix, except that the bits do have to be dispatched from the great Renault cathedral and ‘tis unlikely that they’re gonna be here before Tuesday. Sore was mine disappointment until he did then go on to say that this will only cost me £90.00 in tithes to appease the Gods and I did dance like an monkey on amphetamines for I had been expecting to have to sacrifice an arm and indeed an leg to prove mine worthiness.
Only trouble is that this delay, though decreed by the MOT Gods, will anger the vengeful Gods of Road Tax. And they’re a right bunch of bastards when they set their mind to it. Verily, I may still have to make a sacrificial offering of mine limbs.