So yesterday I decided, with the looming necessity of getting myself to Preston on Friday, to fix the Humber. The headlights have been playing up since we arrived in Melbourne; one of them works when on normally, and three of them work on high beam. Excruciatingly well. Although, of course, the one that doesn’t work normally is not the same as the one that fails to shine on high beam. I am now on my second week where I only work three days, no one was home and the house was mine.

I stole the big mirror from the loungeroom and propped it up against the roller door so I could see which lights were and weren’t working. I fiddled for quite some time with different wires. Then I thought a little bit more laterally, turned the lights on and went and poked the connection at the back of the headlamps with my finger. The lamp flickered on and off. I repeated the process on the other suspect. Same thing.

All of this also involved me getting out of the car, fiddling, getting back in the car, swearing when I realised I’d left the bonnet up and couldn’t see the mirror, crawling back out, shutting the bonnet, getting back in. Obviously if the car hadn’t been wedged into the carport in such a way that I could only get to the drivers seat via the passenger door, it all might have been a lot easier. Why didn’t I move the car? More on that later.

Armed with some screwdrivers and gaffer tape, I fixed the headlamp plugs as best I could. One of the headlamp connections had already had it’s plug thing taken off and was attached to the lamp via some solder and little socket things, which I reckon should be a future step for the others. Anyway, I got it all working.

A-ha! I thought, with rare optimism. Now I’ll tackle the generator!
The generator is the second one I’ve had in about ten months. It began behaving intermittently upon reaching Melbourne. When the generator doesn’t work, the battery doesn’t get charged, running the car then draws straight from the battery and drains it. Usually when you’ve ventured to somewhere like Bittern, or East Keilor.

First I had to look in the manual to find out where the generator was hidden. I knew that I had spied it somewhere near the engine once before. Or was that the starter motor? No. It wasn’t. The manual (if every anybody needs a manual written, find the person that wrote the manual for the Humber Supersnipe Series IV - it’s a grand example of what a good manual should be) showed it to be the thing that drove the fanbelt. Which, after some pondering in the sun, made sense.

I leaned into the engine bay to locate my friend the generator. And there it was, a few feet down. Right, I thought, groping blindly at it, there must be some way of getting it out of there.

I went and got the generator that was to be put in its place. And began pondering if I had ever been lifting weights at the gym at all. Maybe it had all been a painful sweat smeared waking dream? The generator weighed more than your average ten year old. There was no way known that I was going to be able to swap them over, let alone manouevre it into place. Plan B.

I called the mechanic a few blocks down the road.

“Hi, I need someone to put a generator in my car. I’ve tried, but it’s too heavy.”

“Nah, you’ll need an auto electrician for that love, take it down to Blah Auto Electrics.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why? I just need someone to swap them over. There’s one in the car and it’s cactus, and I have another one. I can’t do it, they’re too heavy. There’s no auto-electricking involved.”

“Bring it down.”

I took the Humber down and left it with someone with the comforting name of Wayne. I was buoyed and hopeful. On the basis of that I cleaned Oomoo from top to bottom and then cloaked him in the new red canvas cover. I call it ‘the cape’.

Wayne called. [I change tense here, inexplicably.]

“This generator isn’t charging either.”

“But…it’s been tested.”

“It’s not charging.”

“Right.”

“I suggest you don’t waste any more money and take to Blah Auto Electrics and tell them that I sent you.”

Oh, I think, the magical power of the name of Wayne.

The next morning, as we’re about to leave to retrieve the car, I get a phone call. It’s one of Wayne’s mates.

“Hi, I’ve had a look at your car.”

“Yep. I’m just coming to get it.”

“Right. Well let me tell you what’s wrong with it.”

“Um. OK.”

“The brakes are shot, they’ll need machining, you can’t drive it, it’s not roadworthy. It needs a new air filter, oil filter, spark plugs, a complete overhaul.”

“Really?” I say faintly. “How much do you think all that will cost?”

“Really. Are you planning on keeping the car? Because it’s going to cost about a grand. At least.”

“I’ve had the car for twelve years, I’m not getting rid of it. But I’ll need to think about all that. I was just going to pick it up and take it down to Blah Auto Electrics…”

“Your car’s red. Right?”

“WHAT? My car is BLUE! Blue with a SILVER ROOF. It’s a HUMBER.”

“Ah. Sorry about that. Must have dialled the wrong customer.”

“Yeah? Well if I wasn’t feeling awake before, I definitely am now. I’m coming to get my car. The blue one.”

M and I pick up the Humber and travel in convoy to Blah Auto Electrics, where they seem quite nice. They look at the generator. They reckon that out of the three generators that I have, one good one might emerge. They say they’ll take them all apart and have a look at them and call me with some options.

I get to work and tell S about my morning. She blanches.

“Oh no. You didn’t take it there. Not to Wayne?”

I nod.

“And then he said the generator wasn’t working and to take it to…”

“Not to Blah Auto Electrics? Say it’s not true.”

I slump. “It’s true.”

L joins us and S says to her, “Guess where B took her car?”

“Not Wayne?” says L. “Not Blah Auto Electrics?”

I nod again, slumping further.

“They charged me $600 to make my aerial and sunroof work. Six. Hundred. Dollars. And they said they would ring me before they did the work, and they didn’t.”

“Oh god.”

I call my Dad. He is irritated and driving.

“Why can’t you talk to me before you do these things? I told you to speak to the Humber man. Look, I’m driving, call me back in five minutes.”

I call him back, he’s at a petrol station. I wonder whether answering my call will spark his mobile phone and cause a huge explosion that everyone will then assume to be a terrorist attack.

I recite my now tired story. When I get to the bit about Blah Auto Electrics, it seems like something has exploded at the end of the line. It’s my dad’s head.

“They’re criminals. They’re no good. Get it back from them. What did they tell you.”

“They said that I can get the armature rewound for about $150 and my bearings and brushes replaced - so I’d have a reliable generator for about $300 to $350 dollars.”

He does the sigh that he learnt from years of living with my mother. Maybe he taught it to her in the first place, I’m not sure. It’s lost in time.

“Do what you want,” he says, meaning ‘get it back right now in a way that involves the least possible expenditure’. “We’ll take it to the bloke who tested the generators in the first place.”

The one about 130 kilometres from here? I think wickedly. The one who said the third generator was working?

I call up Blah Auto Electrics. Contrary to all I’ve been told, they continue to be nice to me as I spin them a story about finding ‘just one more generator’ and that it will take me a few weeks, so ‘can I come and get the car now?’ and ‘I’ll bring it back in a week or two’.

“No problem.”

S takes me to pick up the Humber, driving me into Blah Auto Electrics with a determined brow.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” she asks hopefully, scenting a former battleground.

I decline. They charge me a friendly $55 for the time they’ve spent on it. The Humber and I go home, vanquished.