I was chatting with my Dad yesterday and he says to me:
“Son, I think it’s time you got yourself another car.”
“What’s wrong with the one I’ve got?”
“Your car is no good. You are a doctor and a person of your standing should have a better car.”
“I don’t mind about that, it’s not like I have to impress anyone with it is it?”
My father fancies himself as a bit of an erudite with a way with words. He has obviously been pondering the state of my wheels for a while and he comes at me with another of his well reasoned, well thought out arguments that you have to sit back and admire for being simultaneous complex and succinct:
“I’m telling you, it is no good.”
All of a sudden I’m 10 years old again.
“You shouldn’t be driving a car like that. For about £4000 you could get yourself a decent car.”
At this point I should point out that my car is an old battered Fiesta with a 1.0 litre engine, loads of dents and it cost me £400 to buy. It is not P.I.M.P. It is not sexy. It does not impress that laydees – in fact, it doesn’t impress anybody at all. However, it is reliable, has a wicked stereo and is cheap as chips to run.
The thing about cars is they’re expensive. Ludicrously so. Running a car is like attaching a huge leech to your bank account and then watching as it sucks your funds away and keeps on sucking until your account is a lifeless, empty husk that twitches as the bailiffs poke at it with disdain. Also, I’m not one of these people who enjoys driving for driving’s sake because let’s face it, it’s fucking boring.
Hence, I drive around a battered old shed of a car that everyone laughs at when they see me in it. I don’t mind.
“Dad, my car is fine. Remember, last month you spent £300 getting your car through its M.O.T. while mine passed with no problems whatsoever?”
…and I’m going to spend that £300 saving on a long weekend break to Rome.