Oh cripes, I've got a car situation

So I guess this is hello: hello and welcome. Nice to meet you!

Right, so my first blog entry comes to you from a supermarket cafe (not as classy an establishment as I'd have hoped for on my first day, but hey, what can you do?). The reason I'm here is simple. I had a choice: pop to this establishment or sit and wait in a glass box AKA a garage waiting room. That's right: I've got a car situation.

Yesterday, when I was driving home after having had lunch with Grandma (aka Gma), the car started to behave very oddly. It began clanking and growling- (something I'm told young men pay an awful lot of money for when they're pimping their motor. I don't understand why as the noise is highly embarrassing). But where was I? Oh yes, I remember. 'Oh heck,' I thought, 'this can't be good'. So, in lieu of a boyfriend, I got the ever trusty Dad (my Dad, that is) to examine it when I got home. "Brace yourself Mildred," he said and then gave me one of those serious looks that only a father can give: "this one's not going to be a freebie jobbie."

I would say I was crest-fallen, but that would be an exaggeration. Disappointed? Yes. Crest-fallen? No. You see, my brother Scott is a mechanic and he usually services my car (for free), in exchange for me keeping his tumultuous love-life a secret from the parents. And our other brother Graham (who happens to be too straight-laced that it's unnatural. He refuses to be drawn into this dark world of deception that Scott and I so frequent). Unfortunately, my car had an incident when Scott was notably absent from The South, and from England, and from Europe. He's gone to Canada for 3 weeks, and I must say that I now think that that was incredibly selfish of him- what do I do now? Pay. Oh.

But anyway, as I was saying- or about to; I need new parts. The back box, or something like that? Or, as I referred to it when on the phone with the garage- "the oval shaped squished thingy that's linked to the exhaust and a long pipe thing on the other end that should be attached, but isn't." (Very nontechnical I know). But they got the gist of it, because, in short, I need a replacement oval-back-box-squashed-thingy. The reason being? Well, mine broke after being subjected to intense pot-hole torture following the long and unprecedented Winter frosts.

You see, my car is white- and until yesterday afternoon, was actually quite filthy. I thought I'd best don the rubber gloves and get cleaning in case the mechanic thought that my dirty car meant that I was a negligent driver (quite the contrary in my opinion). But just to be sure, I got scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing. And let me tell you, for such a small car, it took blooming ages!

My advice- if requested, when deciding whether or not to purchase a white car. Quite simply, don't. The positive- that it matches any outfit (fact), is outweighed by the fact that a white car is in fact a 'Poop Mobile' (as in Bat Mobile), because they are magnets for bird doo-dahs. Trust me.

Now, the prognosis of my little white Poop Mobile? Well, it wasn't as bad as I anticipated: £50 all in (labour, part and VAT), thought I do now ask myself if that is good, or if it's bad? Considering I'd been anticipating £55, I'd say I got myself a bit of a bargain!

So, the morals of this story are:

• Don't own white cars
• Ensure that when driving, you do the pot-hole-spotting exercise AT ALL TIMES
• Make sure that any faults happen when the cheap/ free mechanic/ relative is in the near vicinity- preferably the country. More preferably still- the continent.

The questions I pose to you are:

Did I get a bargain at the garage? And, more importantly, am I now entitled to a deduction on my road tax as I suspect that the state of the roads contributed to the demise of my little car's underbelly?

Finally, I would like to end this blog with my thought of the day:

I am...
...thinking how much easier life will be when I'm an OAP and receive my complimentary bus pass after the shenanigans with my motor vehicle. At the same time, I now feel disloyal to the ever loyal Poopster for such thoughts. Oh my...