reasons why I'm single (part 4 of a 78 part series)

I admit that most of the reasons in this series are to do with my social ineptitude; but once in a while it isn't my fault. Every so often I get to blame someone else's social ineptitude.

I went on a blind date a short while ago. Until recently the very idea of that statement would have brought a little sick up in my mouth - but I've given up worrying about these things now and I was at a loss for something to do.

I say it was a blind date but actually I had met the woman before. I knew her to be incredibly intelligent, attractive, complex... unreliable. So when I arrived at the restaurant right on time I wasn't surprised to receive a text from her saying she was running late and I should just go on in and wait. That's never a good look - the sitting at a restaurant table by yourself knocking back glass after glass of sparkling spring water; so I didn't. I checked at the desk to make sure the table was in order and, since it was a pleasant evening, waited outside for my date to arrive.

While I was waiting I people watched. There are three restaurants very close together at that end of Coleraine and they were all really busy. I watched an arguing couple arrive and make their way into one of the restaurants - the wife ordering her husband not to make a scene "like the last time." I watched a little old lady, so stooped that her face seemed inches from the ground, struggle to get out of a volvo - the young driver (her son?) making no effort to help her and seemingly growing impatient at her difficulty. I watched a car arrive at some speed and cruise round the car park looking for a space. There was only one and a mercedes in the next bay was over the lines, making the available bay tight - maybe too tight. The driver thought it worth a try anyway and began to squeeze into the space. 'She'll never make it at that angle' I thought aloud. She didn't - but that didn't stop her trying. Seconds later there was a gut wrenching screech as her black car scraped along the metallic silver paint job of the Mercedes.

There was a pause. Then, instead of pulling out and trying a better angle, the driver pushed further forward and the screeching started up again. My teeth were on edge just watching it from 20 yards away. Eventually the driver gave up and pulled out to change the angle. It was then that I noticed I hadn't taken a breath for a while - so I took a quick gulp of air. The driver changed the angle and went in for a second attempt. And got it completely wrong again. The screeching began even sooner than the previous attempt and sounded, if anything, louder and more painful. And there was no pause this time. The driver pushed on through until she had squeezed her little car completely into the space - and left a huge scar in its expensive neighbour.

The stooped old lady had witnessed the whole thing, and with a look that suggested she may know the owner of the Mercedes, took off surprisingly quickly to inform them that their car had been abused. In some cruel, twisted way I was enjoying the spectacle and began to hope my date would be a bit later so I could see what happened next. What did happen next was that the driver of the little black car was clearly spooked by the old lady sprinting for the restaurant, and pulled out of the space, scraping up the side of the Merc one last time - in reverse - before taking off round the back of the building. Seconds later a large, red faced man came running out of the restaurant and practically began to wail when he saw the side of his car. The old lady was at his side and was looking around, searching for the black car. I too looked to see where it was hidden. It was then that I saw it, parked round the side of the restaurant, and my date was getting out of the drivers seat.

With barely a flick of her hair and a deep breath she made her way to the restaurant, her long elegant strides seemingly effortless, even on some of the highest heels I'd ever seen. As I met her by the door she proffered her cheek for a kiss and apologised for being late, saying she'd "had a little trouble finding a parking space."

I was dumbstruck. We went on to have a lovely meal, full of incredible conversation - and all I could think of was what she'd done to that car - and just how easily she was able to act like nothing had happened. There is no doubt that she is an amazing person, and whoever she chooses to share her life with will be one incredibly fortunate man - but I knew there and then it wouldn't be me. How could I go out with someone knowing that the more I saw her the more chance there'd be that the car beside the only available parking space would someday be mine.

ug

It’s official. I am to car maintenance what I am to the art of seduction – with similar results.

Perhaps that is why my first car died on route to a concert and spent a weekend lowering house prices in the posh part of Aghadowey before being put out of its misery. Perhaps it is also why my third car needed to be towed home from Bushmills, having exploded impressively in a cloud of blue smoke, and embarrassingly, in front of some ex pupils. This, just 10 minutes after I had performed a clever piece of DIY at a junk yard to “fix” that annoying radiator leak. Could this also be why my fourth car would only start following a complicated procedure involving switching on and off lights in a particular order and no small amount of prayer?

You’d think after experiences like these I’d leave any repair work to the professions – especially since, for the first time, I’d spent more buying my car (number seven I think - let’s see, the Chevette, the AX, the Colt, the Astra, the Metro, the 306 and now the Bora – yeah, seven) than I did on the stereo I put into it.

Of course I should call in the experts, but of course I don’t. I am a man; and as we all know men are born with an inherent, almost supernatural, ability to fix anything – especially if it involves using a power tool of some kind. It’s right there on the Y chromosome next to the internal sat nav and the common sense suppressant.

So, when the trim broke off the sliding cover of the ashtray in my centre console I immediately went into problem solving mode. By pushing the cover in and down I should be able to realign the trim with the cover – and if I push hard enough I should even be able to break both of them off their runners and lose them inside the console forever – oops.
Not to worry. If I loosen the screw at the bottom of the ashtray that I just spotted it’ll release the console cover and I’ll be able to reach inside. Except it was like no screw I’d ever seen before. I needed to get a new screwdriver – so I did – and it was no good. That screw loosened the cover of the gear stick unit. But look. Two more screws.
Once they were loosened I had managed to reveal the internal workings of my air conditioning control unit. A few minutes, and half a dozen screws, later it seemed like the entire electronics system of my little Volkswagen was lying in bits on the passenger seat, I had practically removed my entire dashboard, and bought three new speciality tools I didn’t even know existed before – but no ashtray cover.

In despair I gave up and began to put everything back together. This turned out to be more difficult than I had imagined it would, and required a couple more new tools, some blu tac, and another hour of hard graft. Eventually I got it all stuck back together correctly. I know it was right because I had that single left over screw that you always have when you’ve done the job right.

It was only once everything was together that I spotted the solitary screw in the wall of the footwell, the solitary screw that, when loosened, allowed the ashtray cover to fall out of the console onto the floor. It was also the solitary screw that allowed my ashtray cover (with newly reattached trim) to slide easily back into its proper place. One lousy screw!

Oh well, my hands are scraped and bleeding, I have four blisters and seven hand tools that I am never likely to use again, and part of my dash board doesn’t quite sit right – but my ashtray slides smoothly. I am man, I am happy.