The Dreaded M.O.T.

I hate pulling into the service centre for my annual MOT. Even the smell of the place repels me, fuelling doubts of getting through unscathed.

You enter tentatively, surrender reluctantly, opened wide, poked for mechanical soundness, adjusted, fine tuned, up and down, what binds, what's loose. Scraped for hidden decay. Oh! the shrieking whirl of pneumatics!

Meanwhile you fear the worst, waiting tensed, utterly focused, hoping for a clean bill of health.

Then a final polish before the verdict:

"Well, Mr Jones, please rinse; your Molar Oral Test is fine, no problems. See you in twelve months and... keep flossing!"