Maybe I could have tried harder.
Not let myself go a little bit the way I have. I mean, my paintwork is bleaching a bit on the bonnet and I don’t have such a shiny engine anymore. One headlight’s looking a bit cataracty and the ol’ hatch is getting a bit stiff. I’m starting to show my age.
I’m easily befuddled by the zippy young Corollas and those stallion-like Subarus at the lights. I’m not much to look at and I don’t have a lot of get up and go these days, but who does?
Still, I’ve been a reliable workhorse for these guys. I’ve ferried groceries, recalcitrant cats, friend’s dogs and screaming babies, all without a complaint. If I’ve had to have the odd visit to the mechanic it’s always been fairly routine servicing. Packed to the gunwales I’ve hauled them on holidays up and down the island. I’ve shifted houseloads of their junk, loaded down on my springs and never a peep of protest. I’ve borne the indignity of baby puke and dog hair and empty coffee cups and the embarrassment of parking tickets. They brought me to live on these hills which test my brakes and the sea air eats away at my skin but still no whinging from me. And I’m a cheap night out.
So what do I get for my years of faithful service? The first sign of trouble and it’s the wreckers for me that’s what. Oh, there’s this vague talk of selling. Auto Trader or the Buy, Sell & Exchange or even dumped unceremoniously by the roadside somewhere in the central city with signs saying “4 sale” like some unwanted old couch for collection.
Where’s the creativity in that? Why not turn me into a kids play car or an art project or even send me away to end my days churning up some lumpy paddock with no doors and half a dozen inebriated teens hanging on for dear life… actually scratch that last one.
It’s because I’m automatic isn’t it?
The boy’s never been quite comfortable with that.
So here I am, in a kind of limbo, parked outside facing into the teeth of a freezing southerly, awaiting my fate.
I think I’ll chew his cassette tapes.