I decided to take her out for a spin, this impostor, this shiny replacement for the car I had loved like a pet. Like a pet who chews at your wallet and breaks your heart.
I was determined not to like her much. No, she wouldn't win me over with the warm embrace of her buckety seats or the tight, comforting hold of her functioning handbrake. Most of all, she would not impress me with her lack of gears. A glorified go-kart, I scoffed, she'll be dull as ditchwater.
So I took her out on the open road, and she was okay. Nothing special. I'm bored, I rambled unconvincingly to myself while I jabbed at the stereo. I had a leisurely flick through the stations, followed by a good root around the glovebox, and a browse through the CDs. I slapped on some Bowie, that Earthling album that I love and all other earthlings hate. Or at least ridicule.
All the while, motoring. And falling slowly for this accommodating new machine, this purring automatic.
We got as far as Baggot Street before she started to complain of thirst, so I pulled in to the petrol station. Sidled up to the pump, savoured the admiring glances from the guy at the next one over. She is pretty, with her sleek blue lines and soft top. I slip her into neutral, subtly adjust my knickers and step out to fill her up, and flirt with your man. Except that I don't, because the key is stuck in the ignition. So I fiddle with it, faking an exasperated smile as if to imply that this happens all the time. No big deal! Jiggle the steering wheel. Pull a little more insistently. I realise as my panic mounts that there is a queue of cars behind mine, snaking out onto Mespil Road and blocking traffic. So I start the engine and move forward to the conveniently vacated pump in front of me, then repeat the whole charade. This time with the shop assistant watching me intently through the window, and pointing me out to his customers.
Defeated, I pull out into the traffic, mortified but fucked if I'm going to let on that there's anything the matter. I just like cruising forecourts, is all... I am all but whistling a tune, trying to stem the panic as I drive the half mile home, reviewing my less than favourable options. I have no fuel. I have no idea how far this new toy will run on fumes. I have just made a monumental tit of myself at the only petrol station for miles. I cannot leave the car, because I cannot lock the car, because I cannot get the fucking bastard key out of the ignition. I will have to sleep in it overnight, I think, or at least for a few hours until one of my parents arrives to fix it. I have no idea how they might do this, but once they sit in to the driver's seat I plan to run away and hide. They decided to trade up, so technically, this is their fault.
I fell for her, and she has betrayed me.
I pull up outside the flat, resigned, and slip her into park. Kill the engine and give the key a lacklustre turn. It slides out easily.
I was determined not to like her much. No, she wouldn't win me over with the warm embrace of her buckety seats or the tight, comforting hold of her functioning handbrake. Most of all, she would not impress me with her lack of gears. A glorified go-kart, I scoffed, she'll be dull as ditchwater.
So I took her out on the open road, and she was okay. Nothing special. I'm bored, I rambled unconvincingly to myself while I jabbed at the stereo. I had a leisurely flick through the stations, followed by a good root around the glovebox, and a browse through the CDs. I slapped on some Bowie, that Earthling album that I love and all other earthlings hate. Or at least ridicule.
All the while, motoring. And falling slowly for this accommodating new machine, this purring automatic.
We got as far as Baggot Street before she started to complain of thirst, so I pulled in to the petrol station. Sidled up to the pump, savoured the admiring glances from the guy at the next one over. She is pretty, with her sleek blue lines and soft top. I slip her into neutral, subtly adjust my knickers and step out to fill her up, and flirt with your man. Except that I don't, because the key is stuck in the ignition. So I fiddle with it, faking an exasperated smile as if to imply that this happens all the time. No big deal! Jiggle the steering wheel. Pull a little more insistently. I realise as my panic mounts that there is a queue of cars behind mine, snaking out onto Mespil Road and blocking traffic. So I start the engine and move forward to the conveniently vacated pump in front of me, then repeat the whole charade. This time with the shop assistant watching me intently through the window, and pointing me out to his customers.
Defeated, I pull out into the traffic, mortified but fucked if I'm going to let on that there's anything the matter. I just like cruising forecourts, is all... I am all but whistling a tune, trying to stem the panic as I drive the half mile home, reviewing my less than favourable options. I have no fuel. I have no idea how far this new toy will run on fumes. I have just made a monumental tit of myself at the only petrol station for miles. I cannot leave the car, because I cannot lock the car, because I cannot get the fucking bastard key out of the ignition. I will have to sleep in it overnight, I think, or at least for a few hours until one of my parents arrives to fix it. I have no idea how they might do this, but once they sit in to the driver's seat I plan to run away and hide. They decided to trade up, so technically, this is their fault.
I fell for her, and she has betrayed me.
I pull up outside the flat, resigned, and slip her into park. Kill the engine and give the key a lacklustre turn. It slides out easily.
