The little orange light, the one that looks just like a submarine, winked at me from the dashboard. At the same time, the rev. counter stopped showing any revolutions and the diesel engine coughed and spluttered like a weakling pulling on particularly heavy chest expanders. After several seconds, during which my heart fell to my boots, the engine recovered and the submarine light went out. When I got home, I dug out the handbook – 200 pages of useless information about kerb weights, cubic capacity and how to fit a new bulb in the glove locker light, and tried to find out what the orange submarine was. On page 120, the answer was staring me in the face. ‘If the engine management system warning light comes on, report directly to the dealer.’ That was it, then. The game was up. Something was wrong with the computerised gubbins that drives the whole show. I could see the pound signs flashing up in front of my eyes. I called in at the local dealers who, fortunately, reside only half-a-mile from my house. The mechanic plugged his electronic gizmo into the car’s computer. He sucked his teeth and shook his head.
‘It’s one of two things,’ he said, glumly, ‘It’s either your crankshaft speed sensor or your fuel pump.’ I have noticed that garage mechanics like to personalize a car’s parts and accessories in this way. My response was the usual, predictable one.
‘Which is cheaper?’ He consulted a book on the counter.
‘Crankshaft speed sensor’s about £300, new fuel pump is…’
‘Well?’ I asked impatiently. He narrowed his eyes and pulled in his cheeks. I didn’t like the look of what was coming. He shook his head again.
‘£1,400 plus fitting,’he said, apologetically. I was incredulous.
‘What?’
‘…Plus fitting’ he repeated.
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I thought diesel fuel pumps were supposed to last the life of the car.’
‘Oh, the mechanical side’s very robust, but this is the electronic side. We’ve had a wheen of trouble with the electronic side.’
‘What are the odds that it’s the speed sensor?’ I asked. He pondered for a moment.
‘I should say about 50:50.’
‘You’d better carry out the cheaper job, then, and hope for the best,’ I told him.
‘That’s the top and bottom of it,’ he replied.
I left the car with him. Three days later, he rang me back.
‘I’ve got bad news for you,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me, it’s the fuel pump and I’ve wasted £300.’
‘That’s it, in a nutshell,’ he replied succinctly.
I put the phone down and reflected once again on the astonishingly bad luck I’d had with every single car I had ever bought. I have suffered everything from an engine burning oil to the extent that I would have been better just installing a drip into the oil filler, to a clutch failure so severe that the car stood stock still whilst the engine, in gear, turned over at 5000 rpm. If I did not have to depend upon a car for my living, and, coincidentally, for providing most of my private pleasure these days, I would push the keys through the dealer’s door, tell him to take the bally thing in full payment and start taking the bus. Or, on the other hand, I could always buy another car and forget about this one. That might be a costly option, but hope always springs eternal. As I approach my 61st year on this planet, I’m due a slice of luck.
‘It’s one of two things,’ he said, glumly, ‘It’s either your crankshaft speed sensor or your fuel pump.’ I have noticed that garage mechanics like to personalize a car’s parts and accessories in this way. My response was the usual, predictable one.
‘Which is cheaper?’ He consulted a book on the counter.
‘Crankshaft speed sensor’s about £300, new fuel pump is…’
‘Well?’ I asked impatiently. He narrowed his eyes and pulled in his cheeks. I didn’t like the look of what was coming. He shook his head again.
‘£1,400 plus fitting,’he said, apologetically. I was incredulous.
‘What?’
‘…Plus fitting’ he repeated.
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I thought diesel fuel pumps were supposed to last the life of the car.’
‘Oh, the mechanical side’s very robust, but this is the electronic side. We’ve had a wheen of trouble with the electronic side.’
‘What are the odds that it’s the speed sensor?’ I asked. He pondered for a moment.
‘I should say about 50:50.’
‘You’d better carry out the cheaper job, then, and hope for the best,’ I told him.
‘That’s the top and bottom of it,’ he replied.
I left the car with him. Three days later, he rang me back.
‘I’ve got bad news for you,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me, it’s the fuel pump and I’ve wasted £300.’
‘That’s it, in a nutshell,’ he replied succinctly.
I put the phone down and reflected once again on the astonishingly bad luck I’d had with every single car I had ever bought. I have suffered everything from an engine burning oil to the extent that I would have been better just installing a drip into the oil filler, to a clutch failure so severe that the car stood stock still whilst the engine, in gear, turned over at 5000 rpm. If I did not have to depend upon a car for my living, and, coincidentally, for providing most of my private pleasure these days, I would push the keys through the dealer’s door, tell him to take the bally thing in full payment and start taking the bus. Or, on the other hand, I could always buy another car and forget about this one. That might be a costly option, but hope always springs eternal. As I approach my 61st year on this planet, I’m due a slice of luck.
