One Act Drama

There are lots of things I love about Spain – culture, attitude, food, weather – and there is one thing I don’t. Bureaucracy. Spain is not so much swimming in it as slowly going under, occasionally managing a gasp of common sense. So it was with trepidation that I took my car for its ITV, the Spanish equivalent of the British M.O.T. – an annual roadworthiness test. I was doubly concerned as, unlike the British version where you dump your car to return an hour later only to be told it’s failed because you have air-fresheners hanging from your rear-view mirror, I would be an active participant in the drama.

Not much is said when, having parked in the ITV centre’s car park you queue to have your paperwork scrutininsed, pay the €42odd and return to your car to wait your turn. In fact you do not have a speaking part at all. You are, however, an integral part of the production. Without you it would be a one-man show, interesting to a certain degree but lacking in the spark that interaction brings. You are the lynchpin that drives the action.

I returned to my car to find my indicator light dangling by its cable, as if someone had exacted a cruel form of torture upon it, leaving it partly blinded. I pushed it back in and hoped that there it would remain, for the duration of the test at any rate. My number came up and I drove round to bay 4 to await direction.

A man appeared at my window. I gave him the paperwork. Then he stood in front of my idling car and gave me instructions.

Side light,

Head light,

Full beam.

Left indicator,

Right indicator,

Horn.

Turn the wheel left,

Turn the wheel right,

Water and Wipers.

He moved to the rear of the car.

Left indicator,

Right indicator,

Warning lights,

Brake.

Fog lights.

He opened and shut the doors. Fastened the seat belts and gave them a tug. I smiled, he smiled.

Drive forward.

Stop.

Neutral.

Accelerate.

Again.

With strength.

A puff of black came out of the exhaust. Emmissions, but how many?

Drive forward.

He walked alongside the car until I had to stop on what looked like some child’s buildings blocks strewn on the floor.

Get out.

I stood by the side, behind the yellow line, hands behind my back with fingers crossed as I watched the car roll forward and lurch back, praying that the light stayed in.

Get in.

I was walked forward to the moving plates. A walkie-talkie was thrust in my hands and the inspector disappeared down some stairs.

Neutral.

Hand brake off.

Brake.

The car moved from side to side as the walkie-talkie crackled in my hand.

Hand brake on.

Brake.

No brake.

Now I was confused. He reappeared.

Drive round.

[Uh-oh. Not good.] I looked at him, an eyebrow arched in question.

The arms, the drive arms.

[I’d just had it serviced it had better not be.] Two men examined the car as with,

Handbrake on

it swayed from side to side.

Park over there.

I parked. I waited. I left the car and hovered behind the yellow lines as paperwork was updated. And then, the dénouement: was a sticker about to be presented to me to place on my windshield?

Yes, yes it was!

I smiled and in my car took my curtain call, the wipers giving a final encore.

[The sidelight popped out on the motorway slip-road two minutes later. I rammed it back in and drove carefully to the garage to have it fixed.]

THE END

P.S. This has to be THE most straight-forward thing you can do in Spain other than buying a beer and tapa.