You get people who love and adore cars. My sister, for instance, can rattle off the spec of every SUV made by every car manufacturer - something I have always felt is a peculiar trait for someone who collects every edition of Garden & Home. I, meanwhile, am simply proud to know that the word 'spec' exists.
Also, past experience has taught me to think of cars as functional pieces of tin designed to get us from A to B. It's an entirely Zen approach that leaves no room for emotional attachment, and ensures that I am free to spend my money on things besides car repayments (utterly random things - like the stage I went through of hunting in junk shops to buy old editions of Nancy Drew mysteries; or the 300 plus recipe books I own in spite of the fact that I never cook; or the gazillions of salad servers I own despite going out of my way to avoid lettuce at all costs).
I learned to adopt this attitude when my mother gave me my very first car, a Jazz Blue Chico which I duly called Geoff (as in Jazzy Geoff). She was quick to catch on to the fact that driving was never going to be one of my strong points. Her lack of faith became evident when she took me on a practice ride and, by the time we had progressed to about five kilometers away from our house, decided she would rather hop out of the car and walk home than spend another instant with me in the driver's seat. I was almost relieved: there are only so many times you can see someone frantically depressing an imaginary brake before you begin to lose confidence in your abilities. My father, thankfully, had a far more relaxed approach. "You really should have tried to stop at the red light," he would say mildly as a phalanx of furious drivers struck up a hooting chorus and tried to dodge my right turn.
I blame my lack of skills on the fact that I got my license with a teacher who taught me the art of parallel parking by strategically placing a piece of Prestik on the back windshield. All you had to do was line up the Prestik with the test poles and hey presto, you were in. Sadly, though, someone forgot to pass on the memo about the Prestik to the major car manufacturers. Anyone who has tried to parallel in 4th Ave Parkhurst on a Saturday morning will realise what a grave oversight this is.
As it turned out, by the time Geoffrey and I parted ways, he had a waist - both sides were concave from regularly smudging them against walls, trees, poles, other cars (which also gave him rather an interesting paint job). In fact, it would be fair to say he resembled a parabola, since all sides were vaguely conked in. There's no denying that Geoffrey earned his stripes though - he is, to this day, the only car I know that could take off in third gear.
Also, he had to put up with a lot. I am an extremely messy person - not dirty, just messy, although my passengers over the years would contest this. My sister is one such passenger - and after the tramezzini incident, I can't really blame her. You see, one night, I was driving home after a late theatre show and STARVING. So I pulled up at a Woolies one stop and bought a tramezzini, planning a late dinner. By the time I got home, my dinner could not be found. I thought this was very mysterious - since I was driving home from a ballet and not a debauched night of shooteres, it was highly unlikely that my memory of purchasing the item was suspect. So I had a search around but was honestly unable to retrieve the tramezzini, covered as it was by a landslide of papers and magazines. It was my sister who found it, around three months later. Looking for some keys that had slipped behind her seat, she pulled out the food and asked, horrified, what it was. I still maintain that the scariest part about this story is the fact that the tramezzini looked pretty much the same as it did when I bought it. Surely, left that long, it should have become a laboratory of sorts? Makes you wonder what they really do put in those things.
So the tramezzini may have gone to waste, but there have been times when my hoarde has definitely come in handy. Once, while on the road, I received a spontaneous invite to go to a swimming party. Other girls would have had to turn around, go home and fetch a bikini - but not I. After a rummage through the rubbish, I found just what I needed. I've had similar luck with shoes, when I've realised that the pair I have on just aren't the best match for what I'm wearing. Lucky for me, there has often been an alternative at hand.
And as for 'infllight' entertainment - you'd be surprised how much quicker those traffic jams go when you have a novel with you (no, of course I am not proud of that particular habit - but it's better than, say, picking your nose in traffic, which seems to be the pastime of choice for other drivers).
Anyway, after Geoffrey came George, my little silver Micra. The transition between the two was difficult - I remember sitting in the parked car outside my house for a full half hour the night before the swap was made, doing the ugly cry (the one where your mouth opens wide in a way that would give even Edvard Munch nightmares; the mucus strings connecting your top and bottom incisors so thick and strong it's a wonder your jaws don't snap back together). Poor George - as it turns out, he too was put through the ringer. When we parted ways, he had no more power steering, no more air con, and one of his back doors wouldn't open.
I can't be blamed, then, for welcoming my Mom Mobile with open arms as a little bit of luxury after the Boot Camp exercise that driving George had become (you'd be surprised how aerobic driving a car without power steering can be). There is a reason people love those German feats of engineering. The only thing is, I find my new car to have very little personality. If she were to have one, it would be that of a stern German governess, who would wear her hair parted down the middle and braided into plaits which are then looped over each ear. She would dress in dirndl skirts and demand you click your heels together whenever you see her - which is something I am very nearly tempted to do every morning as I gaze upon her frostly countenance.
She has all the mannerisms of a strict governess too. I know this because of her eagerness to employ Park Distance Control. Really, I have to query the wisdom of this feature. The very people who need Park Distance Control, whose every venture behidn the wheel is likely to set off an insane and frenetic beeping, are the ones who are most likely to be distracted by it. Needless to say, Park Distance Control has become the soundtrack of my life. Sometimes I get it from both the front left side and the back right, making me feel like a naughty schoolchild being scolded by my mother AND my father at once. The very worst incident was, ironically, on my first day of driving the car when, in spite of the car's insistent warnings, I drove it into the wall. There was a sickening moment when the car was squealing like a troop of monkeys caught in the branches of a burning baobab, as the sound of the Park Distance Control melded with the screech of metal against brick. Then, as I surveyed the side mirror dangling from the door like a tooth clinging desperatelt to the gum of a prize fighter recently punched in the mouth, all went silent. I have not felt such disapproval from a car since the time I followed a Garmin's advice and drove up one of those perilously steep Cape Town roads, so narrow that even two anorexics walking sideways and sucking in their stomachs could not pass at the same time. (Interestingly, the Garmin refused to take responsibility. I could tell by the crisp, accusing way it said 'recalibrating' - and then kept quiet, indicating that I was too much of a lost cause for even the most advanced satellite technology to assist).
My car is also a dyed in the wool snob. I know this because every time a vendor comes too close, it starts bleating - that damned Park Distance Assist again. It can be very stressful when someone is trying to wash your car, sell you a newspaper, convince you that they have a club foot and throw avos in your window all at the same time, whilst your car is bellowing in protest to their proximity.
Nonetheless, I sense that the German governess, for all her airs and graces, is going the same way as poor Geoffrey and George. The Tuna Juice Incident was the first inkling that this might be the case. Once again, my mammoth bump had got in the way between the driveway and the boundary wall. My first attempt at solving the problem was to place my lunch packet (containing a tupperware of tuna pasta made the night before) on the seat to free my hands. Then, I placed one foot on the ledge of the front seat, one hand on the inside and another on the outside, hoisting myself in. I dare say it was actually a rather strong and graceful move; the kind that might be practised by a stripper on who pole (albeit in a club catering specifically to men with strong oedipal hang-ups). Panting from my exertions, I placed myself on my seat - and noticed I was sitting in something wet. And fishy. Yes, my tupperware had leaked tuna juice all over my new car. I was now faced with two choices: I could either head inside, fetch a cloth and wipe up the spill - or I could suck it up and smell of mackerel all day, and leave my car to reek like a fishing trawler. I am ashamed to say that, given the effort required to repeat my snazzy move, I decided it wouldn't be so bad to smell of fish after all.
Thus, my car has already acquired a broken mirror and some odorous sticky patches which have since become embedded with Jack Russell fur.
See why I am just not a candidate for a smart ride?
Also, past experience has taught me to think of cars as functional pieces of tin designed to get us from A to B. It's an entirely Zen approach that leaves no room for emotional attachment, and ensures that I am free to spend my money on things besides car repayments (utterly random things - like the stage I went through of hunting in junk shops to buy old editions of Nancy Drew mysteries; or the 300 plus recipe books I own in spite of the fact that I never cook; or the gazillions of salad servers I own despite going out of my way to avoid lettuce at all costs).
I learned to adopt this attitude when my mother gave me my very first car, a Jazz Blue Chico which I duly called Geoff (as in Jazzy Geoff). She was quick to catch on to the fact that driving was never going to be one of my strong points. Her lack of faith became evident when she took me on a practice ride and, by the time we had progressed to about five kilometers away from our house, decided she would rather hop out of the car and walk home than spend another instant with me in the driver's seat. I was almost relieved: there are only so many times you can see someone frantically depressing an imaginary brake before you begin to lose confidence in your abilities. My father, thankfully, had a far more relaxed approach. "You really should have tried to stop at the red light," he would say mildly as a phalanx of furious drivers struck up a hooting chorus and tried to dodge my right turn.
I blame my lack of skills on the fact that I got my license with a teacher who taught me the art of parallel parking by strategically placing a piece of Prestik on the back windshield. All you had to do was line up the Prestik with the test poles and hey presto, you were in. Sadly, though, someone forgot to pass on the memo about the Prestik to the major car manufacturers. Anyone who has tried to parallel in 4th Ave Parkhurst on a Saturday morning will realise what a grave oversight this is.
As it turned out, by the time Geoffrey and I parted ways, he had a waist - both sides were concave from regularly smudging them against walls, trees, poles, other cars (which also gave him rather an interesting paint job). In fact, it would be fair to say he resembled a parabola, since all sides were vaguely conked in. There's no denying that Geoffrey earned his stripes though - he is, to this day, the only car I know that could take off in third gear.
Also, he had to put up with a lot. I am an extremely messy person - not dirty, just messy, although my passengers over the years would contest this. My sister is one such passenger - and after the tramezzini incident, I can't really blame her. You see, one night, I was driving home after a late theatre show and STARVING. So I pulled up at a Woolies one stop and bought a tramezzini, planning a late dinner. By the time I got home, my dinner could not be found. I thought this was very mysterious - since I was driving home from a ballet and not a debauched night of shooteres, it was highly unlikely that my memory of purchasing the item was suspect. So I had a search around but was honestly unable to retrieve the tramezzini, covered as it was by a landslide of papers and magazines. It was my sister who found it, around three months later. Looking for some keys that had slipped behind her seat, she pulled out the food and asked, horrified, what it was. I still maintain that the scariest part about this story is the fact that the tramezzini looked pretty much the same as it did when I bought it. Surely, left that long, it should have become a laboratory of sorts? Makes you wonder what they really do put in those things.
So the tramezzini may have gone to waste, but there have been times when my hoarde has definitely come in handy. Once, while on the road, I received a spontaneous invite to go to a swimming party. Other girls would have had to turn around, go home and fetch a bikini - but not I. After a rummage through the rubbish, I found just what I needed. I've had similar luck with shoes, when I've realised that the pair I have on just aren't the best match for what I'm wearing. Lucky for me, there has often been an alternative at hand.
And as for 'infllight' entertainment - you'd be surprised how much quicker those traffic jams go when you have a novel with you (no, of course I am not proud of that particular habit - but it's better than, say, picking your nose in traffic, which seems to be the pastime of choice for other drivers).
Anyway, after Geoffrey came George, my little silver Micra. The transition between the two was difficult - I remember sitting in the parked car outside my house for a full half hour the night before the swap was made, doing the ugly cry (the one where your mouth opens wide in a way that would give even Edvard Munch nightmares; the mucus strings connecting your top and bottom incisors so thick and strong it's a wonder your jaws don't snap back together). Poor George - as it turns out, he too was put through the ringer. When we parted ways, he had no more power steering, no more air con, and one of his back doors wouldn't open.
I can't be blamed, then, for welcoming my Mom Mobile with open arms as a little bit of luxury after the Boot Camp exercise that driving George had become (you'd be surprised how aerobic driving a car without power steering can be). There is a reason people love those German feats of engineering. The only thing is, I find my new car to have very little personality. If she were to have one, it would be that of a stern German governess, who would wear her hair parted down the middle and braided into plaits which are then looped over each ear. She would dress in dirndl skirts and demand you click your heels together whenever you see her - which is something I am very nearly tempted to do every morning as I gaze upon her frostly countenance.
She has all the mannerisms of a strict governess too. I know this because of her eagerness to employ Park Distance Control. Really, I have to query the wisdom of this feature. The very people who need Park Distance Control, whose every venture behidn the wheel is likely to set off an insane and frenetic beeping, are the ones who are most likely to be distracted by it. Needless to say, Park Distance Control has become the soundtrack of my life. Sometimes I get it from both the front left side and the back right, making me feel like a naughty schoolchild being scolded by my mother AND my father at once. The very worst incident was, ironically, on my first day of driving the car when, in spite of the car's insistent warnings, I drove it into the wall. There was a sickening moment when the car was squealing like a troop of monkeys caught in the branches of a burning baobab, as the sound of the Park Distance Control melded with the screech of metal against brick. Then, as I surveyed the side mirror dangling from the door like a tooth clinging desperatelt to the gum of a prize fighter recently punched in the mouth, all went silent. I have not felt such disapproval from a car since the time I followed a Garmin's advice and drove up one of those perilously steep Cape Town roads, so narrow that even two anorexics walking sideways and sucking in their stomachs could not pass at the same time. (Interestingly, the Garmin refused to take responsibility. I could tell by the crisp, accusing way it said 'recalibrating' - and then kept quiet, indicating that I was too much of a lost cause for even the most advanced satellite technology to assist).
My car is also a dyed in the wool snob. I know this because every time a vendor comes too close, it starts bleating - that damned Park Distance Assist again. It can be very stressful when someone is trying to wash your car, sell you a newspaper, convince you that they have a club foot and throw avos in your window all at the same time, whilst your car is bellowing in protest to their proximity.
Nonetheless, I sense that the German governess, for all her airs and graces, is going the same way as poor Geoffrey and George. The Tuna Juice Incident was the first inkling that this might be the case. Once again, my mammoth bump had got in the way between the driveway and the boundary wall. My first attempt at solving the problem was to place my lunch packet (containing a tupperware of tuna pasta made the night before) on the seat to free my hands. Then, I placed one foot on the ledge of the front seat, one hand on the inside and another on the outside, hoisting myself in. I dare say it was actually a rather strong and graceful move; the kind that might be practised by a stripper on who pole (albeit in a club catering specifically to men with strong oedipal hang-ups). Panting from my exertions, I placed myself on my seat - and noticed I was sitting in something wet. And fishy. Yes, my tupperware had leaked tuna juice all over my new car. I was now faced with two choices: I could either head inside, fetch a cloth and wipe up the spill - or I could suck it up and smell of mackerel all day, and leave my car to reek like a fishing trawler. I am ashamed to say that, given the effort required to repeat my snazzy move, I decided it wouldn't be so bad to smell of fish after all.
Thus, my car has already acquired a broken mirror and some odorous sticky patches which have since become embedded with Jack Russell fur.
See why I am just not a candidate for a smart ride?
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