Farewell my friend

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to a loyal and devoted friend: the Poop Mobile.

*

That's right friends, my trusty stead is no more. 

Early one evening last week, the Poopster and I were driving home when a woman driving very fast hit us. Luckily, we were driving slowly, so I wasn't injured. Though I was taken to hospital as a precaution in the back of an ambulance. Lying down whilst being driven is an exceedingly strange sensation- one (I must add), I hope never to repeat again. 

After being given the all clear, I sought news on my constant companion. I found my Dad. He'd been talking with the policeman and was wearing an expression that was very grave indeed.

He told me to sit down. So I did. And then he proceeded to tell me that my little dalmation-ified car was no more. 

Dad was right to ensure that I was seated before delivering this sad news. Silently I looked to him as his eyes met my gaze. And then I spoke in a voice that didn't sound like my own.

'When can I see them?' (The Poop Mobile was like a fish- neither a him nor a her, so they became a 'them', in case you were wondering).

'Tomorrow love, tomorrow,' he replied.

I nodded. 'Okay.'

And with that, we left the hospital. 

*

As a tribute to my wonderful Poop Mobile, I would here like to take a moment to reflect on all the good times we shared as it ocurred to me earlier today: many of our good times have featured in this blog.

• My very first blog entry was about my little Poop Mobile as the exhaust had fallen off. It was the first time our relationship was tested and I wrote to you when they were being patched up in the hospital for cars garage.
• I pay tribute to my car for enduring and surviving ALL THE POT HOLES.
• Though my car may often have been splattered in offerings, when it was clean and dandy, it was a car for any outfit.
• My little car had a wheel transplant during it's time in my care.
• When I first bought the Poopster, I pimped it. I bought a pink air freshner and stuck it in the vent. That was as outrageous as the pimping got.
• I received some fabulous Halford's finest hub-caps for my birthday. To the Poop Mobile, that must have been like wearing a new pair of Manolo Blahnik's.
• Whilst driving along one evening, the car and I were attacked by the cannon-balling bee that flew in through the open window and had to be removed with my shoe.
• It was in my little white Fiesta that I first experienced car-o-feriority when parked next to that gleaming Aston Martin. I'll never forget that feeling; the moment I deduced my car was worth two Aston Martin tyres... I'll never forget the feeling later in the evening when I returned to my car to see that some birds had deposited on the shiny Aston bonnet. It was a feeling of contentment, knowing that to a bird, a car was just another surface: our feathered friends didn't care about the price. That was the moment when I felt most loyal to my car; the moment I realised I was very happy driving my Poop Mobile.

I will miss you.

Thank you for the good times. Though our time was short, it was exceedingly good fun.

There'll never be a first car like you.

*

Thank you for being here to say goodbye to the Poop Mobile. May they rest in peace.

Life with a coach-load of old folk (and me)

Hello dears.
No... that's not right.

Hello there folk!
Nope... that's not right either.

Oh dear. What's happening to me? I appear to have forgotten the much taken for granted art of the standardised greeting. It must be the concussion I incurred when a book fell on my head (from a great height) this week . That's the only solution I can deduce.

You see, since Monday last week, I have being in the company of people much older than I'd usually dilly-dally with. In case you don't know (or haven't yet guessed what I'm talking about), I've been on "holiday" (in inverted comma's). This week I accompanied Gma (aka Grandma) on a coach trip, so you now see how the inverted comma's come into place.

Now, I don't know if you know, but the dictionary defines "holiday" as:

• a time when one is exempt from the requirement of duty and assessment*.

Well, this is totally debatable. I for one was most certainly not exempt from duty, but Gma and her pals were. To further deduce whether I was actually on holiday, I have posed myself a question:

• Was I relaxed?

Yes, I answer without hesitation, but really I mean no. Maybe I was at times relaxed, maybe I wasn't. You see it's hard to relax in a dining hall filled with 300 plus OAP's. As lovely as they are, you can't help but always find yourself on the lookout for an accident that may or may not occur, which therefore makes it impossible to relax. Plus, as the token "young" person, I had to fulfil various unspoken deeds, otherwise the mature folk would cast all kinds of aspersions upon the youth of the nation.

So, with that knowledge in mind, I cast the role of defender of youth-kind upon my shoulders. Nobody asked me, but I felt it was my moral duty; that in the absence of kindred youth-spirits, it was my responsibility to defend the honour of those aged under 30. Don't worry, there's no need to thank me! It wasn't actually possible for me to commit myself to the job 100%, as it wasn't possible for me to defend (what I have recently come to describe as), the undefendables.

Please note: Undefendables are known as such for the simple fact that their actions cannot be defended. Undefendables are the select few that besmirch and tarnish the the tag of youth. (I believe, friends, that you are aware of whom I refer to and require no further explanation...).

Naturally, I felt it essential- in the absence of other under 30's to defend the defendables to ensure that the definition of youth had the following left to it's name:

1. some credibility
2. some meaning
3. some, er, some... something else at least... not sure what...

Understandably, having assigned myself as a valiant knight who has drank from the fountain of youth, I was always on guard. So really, in response to the previous question I posed (could I relax?), the short answer is no, not really. It's exhausting being a protector of human-kind. Trust me.

Now we have ascertained that I was not nearly as relaxed as I'd have liked to be, I posed myself another question:

• Was I tired? 

I answer you with a resounding no, but you know as well as I do that I'm fibbing. Yes, of course I was tired. Who wouldn't be? I was sharing a bedroom with Gma which, by day was delightful, but by night? Well... a different story entirely.

As much as I love my Gma- flaws and all, I don't think my love can stretch to include nightly snoring. Nope, I've thought about it some more: it definitely isn't that elastic. Over the course of the week I swam 2 miles in the hope that I'd exhaust myself into sleeping that night. It was a great theory (if I don't say so myself), but didn't come off in reality.

That was a shame, a real shame. So on top of physical exhaustion, I then added what I have come to term: "total sensory deprivation". It's no where near as scary as it sounds- it's basically an eye mask and ear plugs... but I quickly learnt that ear plugs might plug your ears, but they don't block the sound. They merely muffle it. This meant that I was back to square one.

As Gma is obviously my grandmother, it would've been wrong to poke her with a poking device (whatever was to hand, be it a finger, a foot, a pen, the lamp, a book etc). So I had to make do with imaginary poking, but I have to say, imaginary poking is nowhere near as satisfying as real pokeage because the silence does not follow.

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that I did manage to get some sleep. Eventually. And last night, upon returning home, I had new found respect and admiration for my trusty, faithful and loyal stead: my single bed.

So, having established that I was neither relaxed nor rested, I have posed myself one final question in my post-"holiday"-analysis:

• What can I conclude?

Well, I can conclude that despite the long bouts of sitting and multiple cups of tea scheduled into the day, I have a secret that I have been harbouring since my return. But first, you must promise me you won't tell a soul. You promise? Good. Right, well the thing is, I... I erm... I secretly enjoyed our excursions out, especially the jaunt on the steam train. It took me back to my childhood, which was lovely. But more than anything, I loved the fact that I felt as though I were aboard the train to enter JK Rowling's Hogwarts (you'll understand my disappointment that the engine wasn't a scarlet one, but was in fact bottle green). But even so, I loved it just the same.

I am particuarly proud of my self-proclaimed rebellious streak. Whilst on board the steam train, you're never going to believe what I did! It was so totally rebellious, because I, Mildred McManus am a fully fledged rebel (well, for today at least). You're not going to believe this, but when the steam train was chugging along, I stuck my head out of the window (after sensibly tying my hair back). Now, I know that might not sound that rebellious, but trust me it was! Because right above me was a sign that read 'Under no circumstances are you allowed to poke your head out of the window' (or something like that. I'm not sure if the word poke was used, but you get the gist of it). So you see why I'm something of a rebel now? Cool eh?!

Anyway, I'm going to go to bed now and appreciate the silence and the solitude. Gma- if you're reading this, thanks a million for the trip. To the rest of you, good night and thank you for reading this.

From a very sleepy Mildred

P.S. Sorry I couldn't write to you sooner! The hotel was a computer free zone and therefore incompatible with life for the YAC's (Young Aged Citizens). 

*Sourced from dictionary.com

Yesterday, I had my first experience of car-o-feriority

Hello Friends, and welcome to the glorious month of June. Well, it may be glorious for you, but it most certainly wasn't for me as the promising start to the month that I'd been hoping for never materialised. Instead, I suffered from my first bout of car-o-feriority.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, let me take a moment to familiarise you. Car-o-feriority is when you are sat in your automobile- in my case a white poop splattered Ford Fiesta, and then you park next to another car. But it's not just any car. Oh no. Car-o-feriority only happens when you realise that your little baby is decidedly mediocre. This fact becomes blindingly obvious the longer you sit next to perfection, ie, a car that you can only ever dream of owning and is usually ever only seen on Top Gear. Car-o-feriority is more commonly a male affliction (I have noted at least) and affects my poor father usually on a bi-monthly basis. It is yet, however, to affect my mother- she is very happy cruising along in old faithful- a Honda Civic.

Anyway, there I was sat in a car park, minding my own business (as you do) when I was suddenly struck down by a most peculiar sensation. I began to feel e-feminated (if this isn't a real word I apologise, but given that I'm of the fairer gender, it is impossible for me to be emasculated. Note: I have not put a double 'f' in the term e-feminate, as if I did it would become effeminate, which means to display womanly characteristics, which obviously, I do).

Never before had I suffered with e-femination, which rapidly became car-o-feriority as I began the mental comparison between my 12 year old battered and bruised old friend and this brand new pillar box red three door Aston Martin. Comprehension dawned on me as I thought about my pimping of my car and compared it to the Aston. Do I have alloys? No, but I have the finest Halfords hubcaps money can buy. Did the A.M. have alloys? Yes, in black. Evidently, this car was too cool for school. Do I have a leather interior? No. Did the A.M? Why, it most certainly did. Do I even have a CD player? Nope. Need I ask the question relating to the A.M? I think you know the answer: it had three.

Barely able to prise myself out of the car due to severe levels of car-o-feriority, I did the one thing that any young woman not in a relationship would have done: I phoned my Dad. He did not offer the comforting words I needed to hear. Instead, he welcomed me to the club and informed me that the entire value of my car was worth just two A.M. tyres at the most. To add insult to injury, he then asked me to take a picture so he could see the beast. Thank you dear father, thank you.

Now, I know you must be wondering: at any point did I feel superior in my speckled white Fiesta? The answer you are looking for would be no. I tried to do that logic thing that my Dad taught me where you work out the expenditure on top of the sum of the car, but it didn't perk me up. Yes, I might have cheaper insurance. And yes, I might have a lesser expenditure. But ultimately, I had a Ford Fiesta. These arguments became inconsequential as I began to question my loyalty to my pooped-up motor. What was happening to me, I wondered? For I had always been happy with my little car, until I experienced the phenomenon of car-o-feriority. All I can say, is that it must be exhausting being a man. I mean, this affliction strikes my Dad down at least a dozen times a year! How he manages to pick himself up is beyond me.

Oh well. Life must go on.

Yes, indeed it must. When I remembered that, I felt heartened. I can aspire to the dizzying heights of Aston Martin ownership and one day, maybe one day, succeed. And then I realised, I'm happy to wait twenty years for one. After all, my Dad's been waiting that long (and some), so he's due his any day now. For now, I'm happy to admire from a distance and wistfully hope that one day my hard work might pay off.

With that realisation, I was at one with myself and my ever loyal car once more.

All was well.

Especially when I returned to my car later that evening and felt a certain sense of smugness. Next to my poop smattered Fiesta was a poop splattered Aston. For once, I felt grateful for a little black and white speckling on the bonnet and would have gladly accepted a little more on mine, feeling blessed that a bird would share itself with both the Prince and Pauper of the car world.