Friday, April 27, 2007


At 11.30pm on Wednesday night I was driving home from my friends house where we had spent the evening working on a short film script. I had just pulled off the motor-way and was driving down a long, dark and quiet boreen of a back road with trees which met overhead making it look like you're driving through a tunnel when I heard a noise at every turn of the front right wheel.
Slowing down, I opened my window and from the sounds of things I was quite sure that either some animal was clinging onto my front right wheel branded with a Mercedes tyre print or I had a flat. Since I 'd left my phone on the kitchen counter by mistake I couldn't call for help and I figured driving slowly on my rims was the better option. Plus, as there was no road lighting, any sparks would further light up the way to my house which was only two minutes away.

In the driveway I checked all the tyres. Nothing. No flat, no cat, no rat. What the hell?

Next morning The Husband moved the car and found a large bolt the size of his thumb stuck deep into my tyre complete with washer. It's probably too big a hole to repair.

My last car was a Chrysler Voyager and if you're thinking of buying one I can tell you a little about them like how their engines make a loud ever increasing rattling noise just before they explode with a bang especially if you buy one that you find out on completion of sale used to be a taxi.
The next car I had was a Range Rover which being a large heavy monster of a vehicle gave me not pleasure but a large unsightly vein down my left leg from using the clutch and a bad case of low self esteem from all the "fucks", fists and middle finger signs other drivers save up and like to share especially with Range Rover Owners. I must admit I did often ponder the pros and cons of driving a vehicle only slightly smaller than the house we used to lived in and one that cost more in petrol than the weekly shopping bill. I sold it when it broke down in billows of black smoke twice on the same 45 degree hill and onlookers wanted to call the Fire Brigade.

Now I'm driving a 1998 Mercedes Estate E240 with a bolt through its front right tyre and an unhealthy medical history since I've had it. My husband found out that the sister-in-law of one of the Directors in his company had brought the very same car over from England and traded it in at the garage where I bought it from The Small Man. Right now I'm thinking
1. She was probably a taxi driver
2. The Small Man has not sent me the official bill I requested for the last breakdown
3. How good my husband would look in a Mercedes 240E with additional bolt.
4. Ways of fitting four children into a sports car.

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