Emissions Kilian Doyle"Good morning, Mr Doyle," said the official as I arrived. "This yours here?
You've prepared it according to the regulations? Excellent. If you'd like to wait in there, we'll have it back to you in no time." I was ushered up a flight of stairs and into a viewing gallery, occupied by four or five edgy-looking people. I was getting increasingly tense myself. I hadn't been fooled by the genial nature of the attendant. Even the Gestapo smiled occasionally.
"Your first time, is it?" a prosperous-looking chap in a camel-hair coat asked me. He reminded me of Liam Lawlor. "Nothing to worry about, so it isn't. I don't even know why I'm here. They've got nothing on me." I wasn't convinced.
It was odd. There we were, like medical students in the viewing gallery of an operating theatre, chewing our fingernails as we watched our charges go under the knife.
"There's mine!" yelped a leather-tanned housewife, pointing at an Audi convertible being manoeuvred on to the surgeon's table. "Doesn't she look well!" We nodded assent. I wasn't so confident at my car's ability to pass this unnatural selection process. Not that I'm not proud of my baby, it's just her breeding leaves something to be desired. She rolled into view, the trusty blue Suzuki. No great intellect, a bit ugly, very slow off the mark, but I loved her as only a parent could.
They were on her now, an army of them, poking and prodding and lifting up her bits. "Go on, girl!" I muttered encouragingly, a bit louder than I had intended. The others looked over, nodding patronisingly. It's easy for them, I thought, with their finely-tuned models of Teutonic engineering.
The mechanics were all over her, testing and tweaking, emitting the occasional sigh as they ticked boxes on their little clipboards. They had their heads under her bonnet, faces to her exhaust pipe, even on their hands and knees under her. I felt somewhat violated. And I didn't like those sighs. I drifted off.
"Mr Doyle, could you come downstairs to reception please. We're ready for you now," a severe voice boomed across the intercom, rousing me from the arms of Morpheus, where I had been hiding. I looked at my watch. It's amazing how time flies when you are in the depths of catatonic despair.
A blond gent with sky-blue eyes, perfect skin and pince-nez glasses approached me. I could think only of Joseph Mengele, the Angel of Death who spent most of the second World War experimenting on children and trying to perfect the Aryan race.
"Well, Mr Doyle, we have a few matters to discuss." I felt hot flushes racing across my twitching brow, felt the skin around my eyes tighten in terror.
"Your car is physically adequate. It is slightly below the desired specifications, but not enough to warrant termination. It does have a slight squint though. I'm not sure we can permit that." "Err, OK, I'll get it seen to straight away. Is there a party doctor for such matters?" He stared quizzically at me, unsure as to whether or not I was being sarcastic. But he let it lie.
"Very well. There is another issue. Your number plate does not display the county of registration as Gaeilge. I'm afraid that is a matter of the gravest treason. A betrayal of the race, if you will."
"But that's insane! What possible reason can you have for such a linguistically fascist rule? I can't even speak Irish myself!" I blurted out, instantly regretting it.
He glared at me like I was a subnormal untermensch, a threat to his ideal of a perfect little world of perfect little cars driven by perfect little citizens. I suspected he was itching for a rummage under my cranial bonnet with some electro-magnetic pliers.
I jumped into the car and sped off. There and then, I decided to move to the Aran Islands. There's a test exemption there, so I heard. It's like a leper colony for cars, where the imperfect specimens go to be left in peace. The Suzuki and I will fit in nicely.