I’ve got a new car. Yes, a new camera and a new car. No, I haven’t won the lottery. Admittedly I did win the premium bonds the other week, but I shared the whopping £25 prize with two friends. Yes a whole £8.33.33333333 each. This car is not an indulgence. It has been a necessity for at least nine shaking, spluttering months. In order to work I need reliable transport. In order to stay sane I need transport that doesn’t threaten self destruction at any moment. Driving the old banger is like being a contestant in the Wacky Races, and we are not talking about Penelope Pitstop’s sporty little number. Rather imagine the Boulder Mobile. So last week I got a new car. When I say “new” I mean “new to me”, that £8.33 didn’t go far. But who would have thought it? It doesn’t rattle in an ominous way. There are no odd burning smells. The heater isn’t jammed on. The boot doesn’t double as an indoor pool. It has a rear windscreen wiper. It has a CD player and electric windows. It is very shiny. It is very grown up. It is far too good for me. I suppose it won’t take long for me to wear it in. Before brambles scratches the silver lining. Before mud infiltrates the soft furnishings. Before the rural lanes splatter their welcome. Before it is christened as a gardener’s car. Which is exactly what it is meant to be.
Did I tell you about beeping reversing thingy? Brilliant. I wonder, can you turn it off?