OUR OLD PICKUP A69 was bought on Valentine’s Day, 1990. She’s 26 years old. This time every year, she’s due for inspection and licensing. A fleeting thought occurs: should we change her?
My wife would never. That old girl has features modern vehicles only dream about. Like, no AC. We hate air conditioning. There are no blinking (in both senses of the word) lights nor beepers telling me my seat belt isn’t fastened.
Add to that, no push button windows, computer parts, self-lock nothing, radios in Japanese, foot-operated hand-brakes . . . and she can carry 30 bales of hay. New Sportero owners come here, pack ten bales; two fall off before they reach the road.
So the old girl’s future is safe. I’m not so fortunate. A while back my doctor said I was a “remarkably healthy man”. And indeed I feel great. Not a single ache or pain.
But he mentioned I should get my prostate status checked. Thus began-ed sorrows and great tribulation. For, although I have no symptoms whatsoever, tests show I have prostate thing. It will cost a bit under $40 000 for tests and procedure.
This presented hard questions for my wife. Will a 73-year-old man live long enough to justify that outlay? Shouldn’t she use it instead to attract a younger, non-snoring replacement? True, I’m good at fixing things and handling dead rats, but suppose she could land a busy fellow to shower her with yachts and Louis Vootvoot handbags . . .?
While she ponders such things, let’s run through the tests and such. They’ll make you don obscene little gowns. They’ll put you into machines which whirr and blink. Attach electrodes. Stick something up your wazoo. Make you pass water into a funnel attached to a computer – a “peedometer” – which will work out your gallons per minute. All good fun.
Three essentials, though: a fat wallet for obvious reasons; new underpants: and a sheet of paper. The underpants need to stay up. All of mine have stretched-out elastic. My belt holds up both them and my pants which, formerly owned by some large deceased like Mighty Whitey, would otherwise fall off.
After one test they put my parts into a little pouch which attached to my underwear with Velcro. Alas, my underwears brook no such impedimenta. I had to walk back into the waiting-room holding my crotch like Michael Jackson doing a Thriller dance.
The sheet of paper is for covering up whatever they give you to read and sign. Trust me, you would have to be mad to read those possible side-effects and still sign the release forms. Every calamity is possible. Just sign and forget it.
At every stage, they give you the option to “do nothing”. To tell the truth, seeing my country’s abandoned agriculture, stagnated civil service and judiciary, callous attitude to work and progress, it’s mighty tempting to go the other side. More so if I can depart before Bim goes republic.
By the way, we have no medical insurance. Insurance has never worked for me: (1) our van cost $26 000 duty-free. They made us pay something like $8 000 a year insurance. (2) after paying over 20 years, we made a claim. A fellow came around St Andrew’s Church roundabout in the wrong direction, hit the front fender and bumper. He had insurance. He, the policeman and three duppies on the church wall assured me I was covered.
Not so! The insurance company sent an assessor from Millionaires Garage Inc. Nice fellow. He said we needed new fender, bumper, horn button, ash tray, the works. Not worth it, said the insurer. They would give me $2 500 for my van. A fellow fixed it for $1 800.
(3) Tomas mashed up my house. English assessor said it was insured for its correct value. But it should’ve been insured for the value if Millionaires’ Construction was rebuilding it. They cut 30 per cent.
If I had medical insurance and got shot, they would say, “Mr Hoad, we note your uncle Ernie Hoad was shot by the Germans in France in 1918. Getting shot is obviously a Hoad failing. We can’t pay you anything”.
Anyway, the wife felt a Dick in the van is worth keeping so we should spend the money. By the time you read this, I’ll be, or not be, around.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email [email protected]
