I’m not a car person. Ask me what sort of a car I own, and I’ll tell you it’s a black one. (It’s a Ford something or other, if you must know). I haven’t memorised the registration number. I don’t clean it that often, either inside or out. And when I do clean it, I have to remove cobwebs and lines of moss growing around the windows.
You might think this is disgusting, but I don’t care. Not in a rebellious way; I’m simply indifferent. I don’t enjoy driving and I avoid it as much as possible. When I do drive, it’s usually to ferry a child or the big shop or some object too large to carry on my back. As far as I’m concerned, a car is simply a large, overpriced tool.
My indifference also extends to ignorance. I don’t know anything about cars. I don’t know a good one from a bad one. I know a lot of them are quite ugly. I don’t judge my own car that way because it gets me around: and it’s done that for many years without any major malfunctions. Until it had one.
[ Nothing causes people to get so unaccountably furious more than other driversOpens in new window ]
Ironically, the car went weird just after it had passed the NCT: almost as if that one last effort to please me had proved too much for it. A baffling warning light came on. There was a bit of smoke and some weird sounds. So, because I’m totally ignorant about cars, I put some oil in it. Quite a lot of oil, actually.
But that didn’t work so I brought it to the garage. The garage quickly informed me that I had neglected to put the oil tank cap back on, so the engine was now dripping in the stuff: so badly that it took a day or so before they could have a look to ascertain what the problem might be. But the signs weren’t good: the car might be on the way out, and I’d have to get another one.
This kind of situation is analogous to the death of an elderly family member. You know it’s coming. You might even have prepared. But it’s still a lot to deal with.
I knew that, sooner or later, my car would go belly up. Except I’d made no preparation whatsoever. I started looking at the website where I’d bought the old car, though I couldn’t remember what criteria I’d used to choose it. All I knew was that this time I should get something less old, with less mileage. I also learned that everyone had an opinion.
Herself adopted a tone she reserves for situations where she has to tell me something I might not like, but it’s for my own good. It’s just as well, she said. We do have a wedding to go to next summer, and really, we couldn’t turn up to it in your car. It’s a bit embarrassing.
[ Seán Moncrieff: The word ‘old’ has become an insult. If you’re old, it’s all overOpens in new window ]
Even Daughter Number Four took to standing by my shoulder while I perused the car website, pointing at cars she didn’t want to see me driving. One type I considered was shot down by Herself because a relative of hers used to have one, and the thought of it gave her the ick. Both seemed to have this idea that whatever car I drove should somehow reflect me. It shouldn’t be too small, but it also shouldn’t be too big, or flashy, or plain. It started to feel like I was on a dating website.
The garage eventually gave me the old car back, along with a complicated explanation of the problem. It contained words that sounded like splange and crankstop. I have to bring it back to them in a week, and I’m still hoping that when I do, they’ll conclude that there’s life in the old banger yet. I hope that’s true. Because now, I’m starting to suspect, that description fits me perfectly.
