Anything I can do, my Dad can do better

My dad, much like most dads, can do anything. A call often comes from my mum along the lines of:

“Nick, the car won’t start.”
“Don’t worry love I’ll have a look.” Twenty minutes later it’s running like new.

“Nick, the fridge is leaking a green fluid.”
“OK my dear, I’ll see what I can do.” A day later the fluid will be gone.

“Nick, there’s a massive international diplomatic crisis in Somalia.”
“Give me 5 minutes and I’ll be right with you.” A week later, the eastern African state will be conducting democratic elections that see a victory for a progressive liberal party that oversee the transformation to a major world economic power with low crime.

Sadly I’m lagging behind in that department. I recently went to buy a car, and was shown up terribly for my lack of knowledge:

“This car has only done 54,000 miles. Just has a broken stereo.”
“Only 54,000 miles? That’s the same as going round the world. Twice! You say the stereo is broken?”
“It’s easy to fix, just take this Allen key and ...”
“Who’s Alan?”
“Just take it and turn it in your gersabulator.”
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Spanish.”

He charged me £200 extra, added a few long words and I walked out feeling rather flummoxed. I rang my Dad to ask his opinion about matters, but he was busy rewiring the whole house so he could control each appliance with his mind.

“They quoted me £3,000,000 and I’d have to wait 1000 years for the research to be done, but I got this book from the library and thought I’d give it a go. I’ll be able to have a couple of pints with the money I save.”

Needing music for my drive to and from work, I decided to have a go at replacing the broken stereo in my car. Shouldn’t be too hard I thought. The back of my shiny, new CD player looked friendly enough for an electrical appliance. Big plug holes for wires to connect to. No tricky instructions and it even had pictures. Perhaps I’d been giving my father too much credit.

I pulled out the old stereo, expecting to see easy to replace wires, no tricky instructions and even pictures, but all I saw were my shattered dreams. It looked like a Jackson Pollack painting; all colours visible to man, all seemingly merging into the same tiny hole in the back of the unit. To make sure I couldn’t check where they were going, the ends of the wires were bound together with black tape.

The back of my car stereo

With this came the realisation that I’m part of a generation that relies far too heavily on others. So many of us have just one skill, usually the one we have to learn for work, but don’t have a clue when it comes to something that requires knowledge outside of our forced studies.

Having said that, to cheer myself up I logged on to my laptop, checked my email, ordered a new book and bought some gig tickets. By the time my old man manages to figure out how to do that, they will have invented a car stereo that replaces itself.

This Blog Won't Be Cheap

In England my trips to the mechanics generally go as follows:

“You see the problem is your carburettor is disconnected from your left oesophagus.”
“Sounds like a medical problem.”
“And if you want it fixing you’re going to have to get a new grease alligator to fix onto to your manhole kahuna.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I can do it, but you’ll have to come back last Tuesday.”
“I want to leave here.”
“You see the problem with these things is that koala ectoplasm isn’t what it used to be. I’m going to have to charge you for the manhours, and with the Phillipino Peso at such a low rate well... it’ll be costly.”

And so it continues until my eyes glaze over and I offer my bank card in meek surrender, knowing that I won’t be able to afford food for another three weeks.

In Korea that hasn’t been a problem. I don’t have a car, and I have no plans to get one. Mainly because I won’t be here long enough, but also because driving seems to be acceptable as part of multi tasking. Drivers switch between lanes at will, generally whilst they concentrate on talking on the phone, watching their in car TV, checking their shoes for dirt marks, generally anything as long as it takes their minds off the distraction of the other half tonne chunks of metal driving at 50 next to them.

The low point for me was when a taxi driver fell asleep when heading towards a parked up truck. I woke him with a vigorous shake, pointed at the truck and sat back shaking my head in anger. He simply shrugged and looked rather miffed that I’d interrupted his power nap.

Still, that is a small price to pay for not having to visit the dreaded mechanics. I have, however, come into possession of a scooter. I’m looking after it for a friend of mine whilst he takes some time to see his family in the States. It helps me get around, usually whilst swerving from oncoming cars, but still I’ve managed to stay alive thus far. Although at times I have felt like I’m in a real life version of the frogger computer game.

Now, whilst my knowledge of car engineering is admittedly poor it’s not my worst quiz topic. I’m far more ignorant about the inner workings of women, Indo-Polynesian tribal languages, and scooters. So there was great panic when my scooter stopped working. This meant only one thing; a trip to the mechanics.

I arrived at Win Bike earlier today, and whilst there was no opportunity to enter any competitions, there was the familiar sight of a man in oiled overalls. Generally this is followed by a look of disdain, but this man smiled, wandered over and pulled my scooter into his shop.

I followed him experiencing the age old waves of nausea. Expect this time I couldn’t communicate anything. I was truly at his mercy. No longer could I mutter ‘£37,845 seems a bit steep’ before being shot back into place. It might not do anything, but at least I can feel I’ve put up a fight.

He opened the bike up and pulled out numerous parts, of which I have no idea of the names. One of them looked like a belt. He flexed this until it broke, before showing it to me and saying ‘broken.’ The walls started to close in again. I knew this feeling and there was nothing I could do to stop it. He had me at ‘mmmmm, broken.’ I was his toy now, to play with and toss away at will, with a monstrous invoice following soon after.

He started to replace the old parts with slightly shinier versions. He took a nut wobbled it about in front of me. When he replaced it with a new nut, his left hand held it firm so when he tried to wobble it again, it wouldn’t. This was going to cost me. I was going to cry; I could feel the tear ducts welling up.

So, when the whole ordeal was over, 20 minutes later, I was amazed. 45,000won, £25 in real money. £25 for new parts and labour. That would buy me a crushing handshake and a ‘this car needs scrapping’ in England. I couldn’t believe it, and so I scootered home just as fast as my polished up moped allowed, before he realised it was a horrible mistake and he needed to come after me for the remaining 90%.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a knock at the door.