I love my new car, but on Saturday when I picked it up, it developed an immediate problem: the red light that warns of low oil pressure blinked on, and would come and go. Since it was the weekend, I decided to wait to take the car to the garage.
Now with my restaurant French, I’m quite comfortable ordering just about anything. I know I want my rillettes with bread, and my rougets fried or grilled. But French automotive terms? Not so much.
Nevertheless, I think I made myself understood at the VW service centre, and I’m pretty sure that they’ve ordered a new part of some sort to fix the problem. I got a loaner car to drive, and I’m supposed to go back there tomorrow at 5 p.m. to pick up my car. I expect it will be fixed and ready to go, and I’m pretty sure that I won’t find that I’ve actually ordered a fried eel sandwich instead. But I won’t be too surprised either.