Brace yourself for the dreaded NCT, its as much a test of the owners nerves as the car writes Guest Blogger Barbara Scully
As a passionate feminist I am loathe and slightly ashamed (nah, not really, I am also a realist) to admit that in our house there are some jobs that are boy jobs. Boy jobs include going to the dump, getting coal and logs, and car stuff. When absolutely necessary I have stepped unto the breach on all fronts except for car stuff. Because my other half is a car nut – petrol head I think is the correct term. He loves nothing better than messing about with cars. So when the NCT is due on my car he relishes making the appointment and getting my baby ready for the big inspection. And in fairness to him, his ministrations usually mean that she passes.
But last year things went awry. For reasons best known to himself, he booked the NCT appointment for 1:30am. Yep – 1:30am. Now let me be clear if we were at a party it he would not be still awake at 1:30am. But I will be charitable and say that it was probably because he is a self-employed sole trader that this was his only window of opportunity which wouldn’t cost him (us) a job. Anyway I didn’t care if he was taking her to be tested at 5am. It was his job.
Or it was. Until his real job got in the way and he phoned me to ask if I could fulfil the NCT appointment as he was going to be away (working) overnight that evening. “At 1:30am” I roared down the phone “are you joking me?” No he wasn’t joking. It all seemed very reasonable to him because he loves going to the NCT centre.
In the heel of the hunt a different appointment was made (‘kerching’ as €22 was added to the bill) and as it was a daytime appointment he was working and so I had to take my baby down the road to the local centre.
My beloved car is a 2007 Hyundai Fe – she is big and sturdy; we suit each other. I am hugely fond of her. We have had many great journeys together and I can always find her bulky self in car parks. So off I motored down to the NCT centre with absolutely no idea what was ahead of me. Not a clue.
I parked her in the car park and handed over the keys to a nice young man and I was ushered into the viewing gallery. Yep, viewing gallery where I stood along with other car owners like new parents staring at our babies through the glass of a hospital nursery.
In front of us are four or maybe five tracks. Cars enter at one end and proceed from one check to another along the track. It was fun at first watching cars come in and over-take others as they cleared all hurdles swiftly and elegantly.
Then my beloved arrived in, in all her stately hefty glory. She approached the first check point and her ‘handler’ applied various bits to her bits to check stuff (yeah, I hadn’t a breeze). It all took quite a while. As first I thought (proudly) it must be because she’s a bit of a beast. Then as other cars flew along the system and my baby remained at first base I assumed that her handler was just a slow coach or maybe he was still in training. People left the viewing gallery to collect their cars and my baby was still stuck.
I began to get a sick feeling in my stomach. She was failing. There was no doubt. I had to leave. I couldn’t watch anymore. It was like being at the kids sports day and watching your baby come last in the Junior Infants race. I was mortified and sad. So very, very sad.
And to make matters worse I had begun to live tweet my first experience of the NCT, thinking I would be wildly entertaining and sure that at the end I could boast tweet “Passed. Of course.”
But instead the tweeting stopped. As I went outside to watch my baby coming out of that horrible garage I just wanted to take her home and promise her she would never, ever had to have men poking and prodding her every again. I was handed the form which said fail and the man explained why. It was nothing major. But a fail is a fail, right?
Needless to say himself was delighted. He got ANOTHER go at the NCT. And this time she passed. But dear gentle readers, if you like your car and if you’ve never been through the National Car Test… well brace yourself. It may not be pleasant.
Barbara Scully is a freelance journalist and broadcaster based in Dublin. You can check out her website and follow here on twitter
Barbara Scully
30th March, 2016
