Here’s how it works
My car, if you read an earlier blog, was killed, by a suicidal kangaroo.
The insurance company wrote it off, said it was dead, for all time, a meaningless pile of metal and plastic. We will declare it null and void, they said, which means you will have to re-license it. I said fine, ok, whatever it takes, because I like my car, I respect my car, as far as I am concerned it is not worth killing. Neither was the kangaroo, but it gave the car no choice, jumping as it did, right in front, while the car was at some pace.
All was done. I bought the wreck. On advice of the insurance company. Ricky Heng (earlier blog) repaired it. It ran well. The insurance company told me I could drive it away as the de-licensing had not taken place. all is good, they said. Excellent, I replied.
On arrival in my new home town of Albany, the Department of Planning and Infrastructure, the one responsible for licensing vehicles, makes sense, sent me a letter saying I had to hand in my number plates because my car had been de-licensed.
On instruction, I booked my car into a service station, one that checks vehicles for the Department, obtained a special permit to drive an unlicensed vehicle, had it checked, approved, then drove to the Department’s licensing centre.
You may not believe this, but it is true, the Department official then told me my car was not de-licensed and, in fact, was still in the system. In other words, licensed. So I can drive away then, I said, as though nothing has changed, as though you have not disrupted my life for no apparent reason, as though Mumbai has not been under attack, the world financial crisis has not occurred, and as though it is safe to yell I VOTED FOR BARAK OBAMA in the middle of Omaha Nebraska? She stared at me. Almost smiled, but not quite sure. She regained composure, then said, no, we have to re-license it. Mmmm, I said.
Right then and there, before my very eyes, she de-licensed the car, just so she could re-license it.
Wondrous. Amazing. I remain smacked, in the gob, and marvel at the trivial matters that inspire me.
This is a new start
All right. Not quite new. A second crack. The first first time this blogger attempted to work WordPress his head caved in. He hopes he can work it this time and keep his head.
Wish him good luck.
That’s him, Doust, on the left, standing by Ricky Heng, a genius of a man who fixed his car.
Photo by Chris Pash
Here’s what happened.
My partner and I are finally moving, from the city, Perth, a big smelly place, on the tip of Australia, the western bit, to Albany, a delightfully sweet location, on the southern tip, just before Antarctica.
On the way down, I pass through Manjimup, a small, once thriving timber town, now a thriving mixed farming district, with excellent cherry orchards, meander through the forests, past the last farm, when, without warning, an edgy kangaroo of a larger variety, jumps.
Of course, it being late at night, the roo has been out for some time, eating and drinking, no idea where it is, bang, dead, both, the roo and the car. I am left standing, on the side of the road, pitch black, no cars, no farms, nothing, but pristine forest, wonderful smells and the faint hint of rain.
The first car I flag down slows, looks closely at me, realises I am mad, a lunatic escaped from who knows where, plants his foot, leaves me in a hail of roadside stones, and, probably, not far on, bangs into another anxious roo.
I wonder about this. I look at myself. I see a man wearing ripped jeans, a torn t-shirt, and I remember my hair is long and uncombed and that I have not slept for three days and that I left the stinking city after loading a truck in a state of almost hysteria. Arr, no wonder.
The next car I flag I do so from the middle of the road and I yell into the closed window: “Gidday, Jon Doust here. My car is dead. I hit a roo. Can you give me a lift to a farm? Please.”
The luck: “Oh, Dousty. sure. Get in.”
I am saved. The driver takes me to a farm. The farmer drags my car into his yard. A brother from the nearby town drives out with a spare car. I sleep over night. Not much, but enough to drive on the next morning.
My car rots in the wrecking yard for two months while the insurance company decides which planet we all live on, according to it, and eventually Ricky Heng, the man pictured, gathers the bits together, adds some old bits from other cars, plus a couple of new bits, presto, working car.
The moral of this tale? There is none. Life is like that.