The DVLA inspection date is set for Tuesday week. I dropped in at the local office yesterday to arrange it, having recieved the outstanding insurance certificate (see 2.5).
The counter ticket machine is on the blink but there's a severe woman handing out handwritten ones. I'm actually on my way to a job in East London, so I ask politely about the wait. She underestimates by half and I stand patiently in a pool of sunshine just outside the door.
Unsurprisingly, the humourless girl behind the counter doesn't know what the letter from the dating officer means.
"Did my colleague say this was acceptable?" Clearly my previous visit has been recorded.
"No, she said the bike would need an inspection, in Theale, but I didn't have an insurance certificate..."
"I don't understand. Normally we just see a dating letter, not a refusal to issue one. I'll have to ask."
"What's the problem?" The ticket woman has sidled up behind me. It turns out she is a senior manager. I'm glad I was polite to her.
"The gentleman has a letter refusing to date the vehicle."
I sense the girl is overly fixated on the refusal aspect of this damn letter.
"There appears to be some confusion regarding the frame number. I say 'appears to be' because no one knows for sure if there has been a factory-based error, or a subsequent change..."
"It says," she persists, tapping the page and reading aloud, "'I have had to refuse a dating certificate on two grounds' and 'I cannot issue a dating certificate due to overstamping of the frame number...'"
I turn to the manager, "It also says, 'the bike is a 1953 Bullet and is correct in every detail'. The bike is all original, it just might not be one bike..."
The manager nodds imperceptably at the frank admission, straightens up and looks more severe than ever - no Poz to mollify her more extreme considerations this time; "Book it in at Theale, and we'll see what they have to say," she says, and walks off.
I'm not sure what nearly happened there but I'm glad I was on hand to deflect it, if that's what the nod was about. A phyrric victory, perhaps, but there's always the chance that the inspector might be sympathetic and we can move swiftly on from this bureaucratic bend in the road.
I must organise transport and prepare for the inspection. And, as at school, take the given chance to pump the lecturer for clues on the upcoming test.
"Is the inspection primarily a roadworthiness thing?" My voice is unexpectedly conniving, as I shuffle papers into my splitting 'Bike Docs' envelope.
"No, it's to identify the vehicle. That'll be fifty-five Pounds."
"Oh yes. So, ah, what happens if it turns out to have been stolen, I mean years ago, is there a chance I might lose it?"
"I can't tell you that. In six-and-a-half years of working here, I've never come across a situation like yours. I'll get you a receipt for the registration fee."
The die is cast, as they say. It was interesting to note that my 'situation', as Humourless called it, is not a common one. I don't know what the implications of this are but in anticipation of a good result I've booked a few days off, hoping that I'll be able to hit the open road before the end of the month.
I've decided to attempt a small pilgrimage, to the birthplace of the bike. There are backroads to Redditch - across which the M40 doubtless storms. I've cleared it with the missus and if "you'll never make it" can be taken as a statement of acceptance, I'd better source some waterproofs and gloves.
