I don't know how it is down your way but the car washing industry in Mayfield is firmly in the hands of our East European brethren.
Helping to train the Poles had just been done when a Romanian outfit took over the franchise at my local petrol supplier. With the Poles I had noticed a marked reluctance to address the roof of my BMW, something I tutted to them about as I handed over the six quid. To nonchalant nods then, I began helping them to wash the German monster each time until they got the hang of what I was on about. Wing mirror too were skipped until I weighed in.
We Irish are not renowned for slinging the soapy suds around our motor cars except at times of weddings or funerals. Not for us the weekend routine of the hose in the driveway. But I was trained by a father from Northern Ireland who had specific and definite views on how the family Ford Corsair should be transformed every second Saturday and the golden rule was, "Start with the roof because water and dirt flow down."
Poland on the other hand seems to believe that roofs aren't seen so they don't matter and therefore a battle of wills ensued. It therefore took disapproving facial expressions from me, quite a bit of interfering guidance on my part and finally several on the job demonstrations before the lads got the hang of it. Then the Romanians came and it started all over again.
The wife's car is a dark navy with cheap plastic strips on both sides of it. The sponge the boys use to apply the hot soapy water is about the size of a pillow and is swept in large circles continuously down each side in one go. The result is that when the navy car dries there is an inch of dirt still clinging either side of the cheap trim and even worse, little islands of road dirt pop up all over all over the body. And to add insult to injury, it appears they just spit on the roof and leave it like that. It pisses me off an hour after paying for a wash to have to take a bucket of water out myself to put a respectable look on the damned cars.
So now I'm paying them six quid a time to give them car-washing classes in their own business. I have to chuckle quietly to myself when I drive away in my clean blue Fiesta that cost me the princely sum of one euro to buy but six euros to clean. Then this morning I was on my way past the garage when flashing headlights to my left caught my attention. Two of the Romany lads were idling in their car and beeping madly at me with a thumbs up.
Is that apple for the teacher or what?