There’s no shame in growing old disgracefully.
Took the unheard of step by looking to buy a small sport car
yesterday. Always wanted one but
load lugging, daughters and their countless friends requiring transport, visits
to IKEA and numerous fully laden trips to far flung University Halls of
residence meant that every time the idea cropped up in conversation it was
rapidly mown down by Mrs H on the grounds of economics, practicality and
lastly, and what I felt was a little below the belt, references to my advancing age and grasp on reality.
Well we passed Lansdown Mazda and Mrs H commented that she
rather liked the “blue one over there”.
Not being slow off the mark (when my best interests are at stake) we
arranged a test drive, and low and behold before we even got to the racecourse
she was saying that perhaps she might consider giving me the green light to buy
one.
The experience not the same as my mates old Spridget that we
hammered around the lanes of Mells, Vobster and Whatley all those years ago. That glorious heap of rubbish shook your
fillings out and I’m fairly certain that my dodgy back is due in not small part
to the suspensions crashes I got from hitting pot holes (normally to found
outside farm entrances). Still, in
this little Elan look alike, we were open to the sky, I was playing with a 6
speed box and the back end was as lively as bag of ferrets. Oh joy!!!
Later, on viewing the brochure, daughter number one weighed
in with the comment that she was seriously embarrassed by the fact that her
father was considering buying a hairdressers car (she has got to stop watching
Clarkson and all his evil doings!), daughter number two only asked how much it
would cost to put her on the insurance.
I eschewed both comments on the grounds that they both
seriously impressed by my choice of personal transport but were not prepared to
celebrate my motoring liberation – it could have been worse, a Ducatti Monster or, God forbid, a
Harley D.
Still, I have now got to convert Mrs H’s tacit interest in
my project in to full-on enthusiasm – softly, softly catchy monkey.
Frankly I don’t care if others think “who does that old git
think he is in that sort of car?”
We dropped into a farm shop recently where a mini-bus was disgorging 4
or 5 wheel chair borne seriously incapacitated old folk for a cup of tea and
carrot cake – I’ve got some seriously living to be done before I get to that
state.
Raging against the inevitable
Mike