Broom Broom.

I was driving my little Fiesta on Tuesday, doing my usual errands, completely oblivious of what was to come. As I dropped DS off at his settling-in session at nursery on Wednesday, I noticed the gear stick refusing to slot into place and it required some force each time I needed to change gear. As the day progressed, the problem worsened, until eventually the car would manically jolt whenever the clutch pedal was applied and it sounded like something was scrapping along the floor as I drove.

In a slight panic, I visited my uncle’s garage and fortunately caught him just as he was locking up the gates. He informed me that my clutch was gone completely and it would cost hundreds to replace, which would not be worthwhile for my old banger. He took me to visit a car dealer, where I spent quite some time deliberating over many cars. My main priority was to have a spacious boot; obviously there are other considerations like the mileage, age of the car etc, but being a mother makes the boot space top on the list, along with having five doors.

I detest myself and who I become in a car related situation. I am no longer astute, nor do I show any form intellect with my dimwitted questions. I say things like ‘I don’t understand’ and ‘I don’t like that car because the lights look angry’, with slight hope that the car salesman interprets this as a damsel in distress facade, rather than pure stupidity. Maybe men with fast cars are suckers for a girl who needs saving, ignorant or not, I still managed to haggle him down a rather substantial amount for my newly purchased car.

I did not have time to say goodbye to my little Fiesta. At eleven years old, it has served me well over the past four years. I have literally run it to the ground now; with a missing rear view mirror, the left-wing mirror practically hanging off, the cigarette lighter not working and a cracked windscreen, I think it has seen better days.

Goodbye Fiesta, you will be sorely missed.

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