…one man's contribution to the Weeeeerly Wild World
“The blue one.”
Yeah, so, I took my car for its annual check-up. I parked it up outside the garage and wandered over to hand the mechanic the key. “Which one is it?” he asked. I turned and pointed, and said “The blue one.” Then during that moment I realised there was another blue car between us and it… my brain froze for a moment and then when I regained the knowledge of what make of car I owned I filled him in on the details. “The Renault.” Luckily the car between us and it was something other.
I laughed. Not meaning to sound sexist, but I had just failed at being a guy.
It could have been worse. I could have added that it was the one with four wheels on the outside and one on the inside that I sit by when I want to command it to go forth. These things I thought about as I wandered off down the road, still laughing at myself. “‘The blue one’… you muppet.”
I then spent a couple of hours wandering round Holyhead, around and up and down the mountain, in and out of charity shops, into and out of the Co-op to buy the last remaining ingredient I need to assemble a Battenburg Cake, before returning to the garage to learn the news/its fate.
I wondered the whole time if I would soon be car-less. I had recently patched up a hole with a Red Bull drinks can – she’s showing her age now and I have not seen another car I have the least bit of interest in owning or driving. Not that this one is anything special, it’s blue.
I think I would be quite content with not owning a car any more and instead cycling everywhere… I cycle twice as many miles as I drive and I begrudge spending four times as much keeping the car on the road, largely just through vehicle tax and insurance, than I do in putting fuel in its tank to get me places. I can’t be doing with driving the few miles to the shops and back as seems to be the norm for many – I like my exercise, and being green. But I do like driving. I drive so infrequently now that when I do get behind the wheel it’s still a thrill to stick my boot down and flirt with the speed limit, and frighten old people by making a loud noise, and get that adrenaline buzz that I don’t get from anything else, not from cycling.
But no. Surprisingly it passed again, with only a warning on the tyres, again… they’ve been warning me about them for years: “They’re wearing on the inner edges… you need to get the tracking done… they’re [still] wearing on the inner edges… they’re worn on the inner edges, border-line – a hundred-miles more, tops…” I think I’ll get them changed now, and at least get a year out of some new ones before its next check-up, that and change the oil… I can do that myself. Oh and new wiper blades: I was convinced he’d pick up on those.