Every now and again, out of the blue, my husband’s accountant tells him that it’s time I had a new motor car. This strikes me as completely absurd, as I drive a total of about 4000 kms in a whole year; so when the man wants to take away my car, it’s still in perfect condition and I protest, but they insist and men arrive, take the car and leave another in its place.
This is all very well and I am sure there is a valid reason. However, I am mystified at what they choose for me. Allow me a little anthropomorphism here, let’s pretend this is Facebook and we are completing one of those inane quizzes: What Car Are You?
In my case, performance counts for little because of my lack of long distance forays. No, I don’t care about horsepower, fuel consumption or torque. I like ambience. I see myself as a vintage vehicle; a Bugatti T49 perhaps. Or a sexy old E-type Jaguar, hell; I even fancy I could make a Carmen Ghia purr with pride.
But no! I get cars that are named after fat, sensible girls or guard dogs: Honda, Getz and the horsey-set-crowd-sounding Polo. Honestly, I have never liked Burberry checks and would die rather than be seen in shoes with cleats; but I have been made to drive a Golf!
It makes no sense.