Tim Dowling: what’s the point in having two cars if neither of them works properly?

My wife and I are driving through London in two cars, one behind the other. The old Mini is due its MOT and my wife said that if I drove it to Farouk’s garage, she would follow me and take me home in the other car.

But she’s ended up in front and the Mini is struggling to keep up in traffic. It has already stalled once. I feel as if I’m taking an old and infirm dog to the vet; if it never comes back, it might not be a bad thing for all concerned.

I pull up alongside my wife at a four-lane bank of traffic lights. I smile. She starts gesturing at me furiously. I shrug. She says something, but I can only lip-read the swearwords. I wag my head from side to side dismissively; her eyebrows knit and she jabs her finger against the glass of the driver’s window. I don’t know what we’re arguing about, but it has escalated quickly.

It turns out that I’m in the lane to turn right and she wants to go straight on. I extend a palm towards the road ahead, as if to say: I know exactly what lane I’m in; I thought we were turning right – it’s quicker. Through various hand signals, my wife commands me to reverse and tuck the Mini in behind her.

“What?” I mouth. “I’m not doing that.”

My wife gives me a hard stare. I shake my head and roll my eyes. Then I reverse up my lane and tuck in behind her.

A few hundred yards up the road, I finally realise that she was deliberately avoiding a stretch of the A40 for my sake, in case the Mini suddenly gave out. I think: yeah, fine, whatever.

By the time I get to the garage, Farouk is outside, waiting. I pull up, engine coughing, windows rattling, and climb out.

“It doesn’t run good,” I say.

“No,” Farouk says. “I can hear.”

My wife walks up. “I need you to come look at this please,” she says, leading us over to the other car.

I turn to Farouk. “After you,” I say.

In the months since we bought the new car from Farouk, it has had its share of mechanical issues, which he has fixed for free. But now that the car has been recalled by the manufacturer, his interest in its myriad failings has become more academic. He’s still curious, but less engaged.

“What’s going on here?” my wife asks, pointing to the dashboard display.

“That’s the oil light,” Farouk says.

“I know what it is,” she says. “Why is it on? It flickers in and out when I drive.”

“Hmmm,” Farouk says. He raises the bonnet. We stare at the engine for a bit, in silence.

“Where’s the stick?” I say.

“The what?” Farouk says.

“The thing to measure the oil,” I say. “The dipstick.”

“It doesn’t have one,” he says. “It’s an electronic sensor.”

“That’s insane,” I say. “How do we check if it’s lying?”

Farouk adds some more oil, just in case. The light goes out, but on the way home it comes on again.

“Did you call them?” I say, meaning the recall hotline.

“I couldn’t get through,” my wife says.

“I’ll keep an eye on it when I go to rehearsal tomorrow,” I say.

“You’re not having the car tomorrow,” she says. “I’m going to Sussex.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I say. “I need to move a bunch of equipment.”

“Not my problem,” she says.

In the end, I cadge a lift. When I get home the next night, the ground floor of the house is dark. I turn on a light, pour myself a glass of wine and sit at the kitchen table. After a few minutes, the middle one comes downstairs and pulls a box of cereal from the cupboard.

“Did mum tell you about the car?” he says.

“No,” I say.

“Apparently, the engine suddenly started going crazy on the motorway.”

“Is she all right?” I say.

“She got home, but she seemed pretty freaked out.”

“Christ,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“Dunno.”

“Did you know there’s no such thing as a dipstick any more?”

“What’s a dipstick?” he says.