It is fit

Today I took my car for a Warrant of Fitness (WoF—or, less typographically correct, WOF). I do this every six months, and, I should say upfront, my car passed. It was still nerve-wracking.

A WoF is an inspection to make sure that a car is safe to be on the road. In principle, I think this is a very good thing, indeed. However, whenever I take my car in, I can’t escape the feeling that it’s ME who is being evaluated, that it’s ME who can fail the test. Projecting, maybe, but it’s what it feels like to me.

An owner can watch all (or most) of the testing process from nearby, but doing so tells you nothing: What if they find some rust in an otherwise hidden spot? What if one of the tyre’s tread depth isn’t quite right? A burned-out tail light? Windscreen wipers?

Whenever I take my car in for a WoF, my mind goes over all the things that could be wrong—but they always never are actually wrong. This is how I get wrapped up in the test—a failing of the car would be my own personal failing—and then it doesn’t happen.

See, if I were rich, I’d make my staff take care of the warrant for me. No doubt about it. For me, it’s so bizarrely stressful that I’d gladly palm it off on someone else if I could. It’s just too nerve wracking to do myself.

But, as it happens, I—um, I mean the car—passed, and I don’t have to worry about it until April of next year. Time enough to get my nerves good and wracked all over again. That’s how a WoF works, sometimes.