Sometimes, you treat a loved one very badly. Then you regret it deeply and in a heartfelt manner. Most of the regret is selfish, "How will i get on without you?"
This is especially true when the maltreated object (MO) is your car.
The MO is carefully driven through the gates of the automotive repair shop. If it spluttering and grimy, you carefully avoid meeting the eyes of the any of the makaniks. The car is deposited, emptied of music, bills, funky yellow cushions with a 3-d dog in a skirt on them (they won't believe me till i post a picture of the f. y. pooch cushion) and a hosepipe.
A day later you traipse into the zentrum, free of that hangdog look you had earlier. You may even whistle, though this is foolhardy. They might just decide they don't like your attitude, and hand you one of those Heathrow clear plastic bags with the knob of the gear stick and part of the indicator light thingummy leverbob.
But oh the joy when the car rolls out! If it had teeth, it would smile cheekily and they would glint in the sunlight! (This blobber doesn't have much mechanical aptitude, knowledge or common sense, does she?)
You expansively sign the bill and tut tut in a friendly manner at a grimy spot on the door, but are willing to overlook it this time.
Right then, you could drive into the desert as the sun sets, as they tend to do in car adverts, and it would actually make sense.