Warrant of Fitness

I’m in the line to get a Warrant of Fitness for the van. There are four cars in front of me. I’m afraid I’m in the slowest lane. It includes a taxi which seems to be getting a thorough going over. The car in front of me is being hovered over by two men who are laughing and joking in their puffer jackets. In the car next to me is a bearded driver. He’s sitting there, windows up, staring into space.
The van has passed the WOF the last couple of times which probably means that it will fail this time. It’s 15 years old so no matter how regularly it is serviced, things wear out. I know my mechanics pretty well.
A van with a roof rack is not the best vehicle for Wellington. The streets are steep and narrow. The parking buildings have low ceilings. Most of the street parks are parallel parks. (I can parallel park but sometimes it’s tricky to get the van back out again.) The smartest thing would be to replace it with something smaller but even the idea exhausts me. I have my fingers crossed for the best although I am not hopeful.

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