Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Down at Hyundai central the ’service centre’ is a gleaming fluro white facia, a veneer that hides a labyrinth of  spanners and hammers and jugs of oil and crinkled blue uniforms with dark greasy stains. Reception  is ‘professional’, courteous, positive, behind the scenes who knows? Is each  vehicle bay as neat and orderly as the front  desk? Does the mechanic have to wash his hands in solvol after each nut is unthreaded – surely it cannot be so. From my experiences of  less professional outfits there’s probably tools lying about on a bench that  maybe will get put away at end of day.

The smell of brake pad linings and oil drained from sumps, exhaust fumes and oily black hands, where the grease and grime has got right up under the fingernails making a dark half crescent- how do you get that out – with a scraper? And yes that automotive soap has a distinct odour that  impregnates your hands for a few hours.

The mechanics decants oil into the engine as if it were vintage whiskey, the engine lovingly gulps and laps it up, pet and owner, mechanic and car the two are  symbiotic. Plastic sleeves  are slippers on the seats to make sure none of the dirty stuff gets left behind , though sometimes they leave the sleave behind for me to deal with. There’s just a hint of aircraft hangar to the garage area near where the car is parked , all renewed and ready to roll.  At fluro control, my card is licked by the eftpos machine and virtual dollars shake hands in cyber space………