Julie Jay: Like Elon Musk, Ted believes cars don’t need people to drive them

We can wile away many an hour counting the vehicles as they go by (we can only get up to eight, and then we start again, but even Pythagoras had to start somewhere). I have never been good at cars, so much so that I have always lived in fear of witnessing a serious crime and having to guess the make and model. Generally speaking, my descriptors start and stop at colours. Even size is a relative term, given that my first car was a Fiat Seicento — a car that gave me so much but also broke my heart.

One particularly ignoble moment was when I ran out of petrol driving it up Gardiner’s Hill dressed as a banana, and two burly men proceeded to lift me and the car onto the footpath, much like you would move a toddler on a trike.

On the way home from a day out, Ted is delighted when we get pulled over at a Garda checkpoint for a random search and an array of big and small trucks.

My NCT disc is out of date, but I politely explain to the young guard that I’m booked in to get the test soon.

“I’ll just check the boot for drugs but I’m sure we’re OK,” the guard says with a chuckle. I am suddenly morbidly offended. Surely this is some kind of ageism? ‘Maybe I DO have drugs on me’, I want to retort, but I zip it for fear of ending up as a cautionary Garda Tweet.

As he takes a peak in the boot, I am inexplicably anxious, nervous even, sweating like a passenger on Nothing To Declare who has been asked to carry a bag for an Englishman they met at a beach party in Thailand. Remembering the exploded talcum powder all over the spare tyre, I start to fret that none of this is looking good, but thankfully the guard returns to my window and says we’re in the clear.

I exhale slowly — another crisis averted.

Ted starts to show the guard his selection of vehicles now. The guard asks if he has a licence, and we all laugh the exaggerated laugh you laugh when a guard makes a light joke at a checkpoint.

The guard produces a breathalyser, and Ted wants to climb out of his seat with excitement — this unexpected encounter gets better and better for him. I’ve never been breathalysed before, and even though the closest thing I’ve had to an alcoholic beverage in months is a wine gum, I start to sweat as I blow into the ominous black box.

Ted doesn’t take his eyes off the guard and nods seriously when I get a negative result.

I think it’s safe to say we could have a future guard on our hands, and not just because neon yellow looks great on him. Something about Ted’s presence screams ‘tax and insurance’ — he exudes an imitable quiet authority.

Cars and trucks seem to be on my son’s mind 24/7. On more than one occasion this week he has woken me up in the middle of the night, calling for his garage. Gone are the days when he would like a bottle, he now wants his double-storey mechanics station deposited into his cot, Sorry, Ted, but we have to draw the line somewhere.

In the morning, after we feed Molly the cat, we head straight for the garage. I bring my mechanic toast so he can work on the job because time is money, etc etc. I didn’t get where I am today without knowing a mechanic’s hourly rate. If my comedian husband Fred and I didn’t have to work for a living (capitalism wins again), I could easily wile away the day, conjuring up imaginary car-related stories with Ted.

Our stories usually revolve around injured Lego men, dinosaurs on the track, ambulances and police cars and serious incidents involving sheep driving fire trucks. Occasionally, I will attempt to interject and try to save a car from certain destruction, much to Ted’s chagrin who, like Elon Musk, believes cars don’t need people to drive them.

We are off for the NCT test this week, and it feels like it’s Leaving Cert 2001 all over again. I am a ball of nerves because I know the Yaris owes me nothing, but having put a chunk of change into it over the last few months, I dread to think it will be up there with my investment in Bitcoin as one of my worse financial decisions.

The last time I brought Ted to the testing centre, we passed, thus as my lucky charm and eternal mascot, he’s coming again. So surprised was I to pass the NCT, I bought the testers a box of Roses which I’m pretty sure is illegal.

So if you work in my local NCT centre and you’re reading this, you know what to do. Ted and I aren’t looking to bribe you, but let’s just say that what we lack in the spare tyre department, we make up for in chocolates. And to reiterate, it is most definitely talcum powder on the tyre.

•  Julie Jay’s show ‘Oops this is toxic’ is at the Everyman Theatre, Cork, on Thursday, October 20