FOREIGN TERRITORY

LIKE OLD SOCKS IN A WASHING MACHINE, WHAT HAPPENS TO THEM ALL?

- JON FAINE

IF I CONNECTED all the threads from all the T bags I have ever used, the string would reach to Le Mans and back.

If I could find all the tiny spring washers I have dropped into the unreachable depths of all the cars I have ever owned, they would fill a skip.

If the horde of many years’ worth of lost spanners, pliers, screwdrivers and sockets all magically rematerialised I could open a tool shop and would never need to work again.

Like odd socks in the washing machine, what happens to them all? 

As I press energetically through what is optimistically tagged as ‘middle’ age, my dexterity deteriorates in tandem with my libido. While the ambition is still there, I am much better - as a mechanic I need to clarify - in my mind than in the real world.

Mysterious as that existential crisis is, there are other puzzles in my garage. It seems that despite lost spring washers and sockets, all my recent work is paying off.

For the first time in about a decade, a majority of the cars in my shed are actually going.

Reliably starting, driving and returning home. Not leaking. Not needing any urgent fettling. A pleasure to drive. When I tuck them back into their cosy nest, I can simply turn off the ignition, shut the roller door and walk away.

I am not sure what to do with myself. This is alien territory, confusing and psychologically challenging. I am habituated to feeling needed and am unsettled at having a garage with cars that do not need urgent repairs.