where art collides

The Peugeot is dead, long live the Nissan Micra

It wasn’t the scratches (multiple and in the same place) down its side

Or the hole where the drivers side lock used to be that wasn’t too much of a problem until the remote control central locking stopped working so you always had to open the car using the passenger side lock (ie the one remaining)

Nor was it specifically the fact that the petrol gauge only worked when flicked with a finger and ditto speedo and the rev counter (who needs a rev counter?!)

Fortunately, of the two it was the window water jet on the driver’s side that remained functioning

And I didn’t mind the fact that to unlock the petrol cap you had to lift the lever in the foot well with your toe whilst stretching back to unhitch the lid because the spring mechanism didn’t work

The nailed in place rear driver side window (an over enthusiastic passenger looking for a ride home from a party) was not an issue to me

and the fact that you couldn’t see what channel the radio was tuned to because the light didn’t work – this of course was a problem when we had to re enter the radio security code but couldn’t actually see what we were entering – the volume button had fallen off the radio anyway and it was a different light to the clock illuminator – no we couldn’t see the time at night.

No, seeing as you ask, the battle scarred veteran of gate post knocks and pay and display machine bumps suffered from not a scrap or scintilla of rust. The engine was in good order and would have comfortably added 50,000 miles to the 250,000 it had already travelled.

The gaffer tape holding the wing mirror in place was not a problem and the MOT inspector seemed unconcerned with the permanently flashing airbag light that was covered in black tape so as not to annoy the driver. 

In fact it was all of the above. The Peugeot 406, registration number N810NTL, colour dark blue had served its time.

We salute it, our faithful servant, “Tom’s car”, one we could happily leave overnight outside the pub and return to pick it up in the morning. A car I no longer bothered to lock much of the time. Who would take it?

The Peugeot was traded in for a £100 discount on a second hand Nissan Micra.

Our car now lies in a scrapyard, in what condition we know not. We shall not be making enquiries. We shall not be there at the end and our “Peugeot of four oh six” will finish its glorious days alone and friendless under the chilling shadow of the crusher.

It will not be forgotten, but the Peugeot is dead, long live the Nissan Micra.

That Friday I left the office early and set the autopilot for East and home. It was New Year’s Eve and most people were getting into the zone. Party time. The radio played loud music as I drove through the Lincolnshire countryside. The light was disappearing fast and with the mists rising up from the fields the whole place looked like a movie set.

When I got home there was a nerf war going on upstairs. It was a no-go zone if you were over 13 years old. Anne fixed me a cup of tea and I sat down to check my twitter updates. Nobody seemed interested in the nerf war. If it had been another French Revolution it would have been different. Or maybe not (shrugs shoulders)!

I reckoned I had another 15 minutes of typing before it would be time to hit the Morning Star for early doors. I wouldn’t be there long. Just enough time to sink a few beers and then collect the take away curry from Poppadom Express on Monks Road.

We don’t do a big New Years Eve in our house. I think deep down Anne would like to but I can’t take the Auld Lang Syne false bonhomie. Call me a miserable bastard. I don’t mind kissing all the girls though but I can do that at home – guaranteed 🙂

I took the curry order off the kids. Two chicken kormas, two chicken tikka massalas and whatever I wanted. Way back I used to be a vindaloo man or at least madras but I got out of the habit when I stopped going out on the town after rugby on a Saturday. That’s civilisation for you I guess.

I like this clear headed time sat at my laptop. I won’t be productive after the pub. Ernest Hemingway used to drink six bottles of red wine whilst writing but it doesn’t work like that for me. It is completely dark now.

It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting out on the decking with a nice little glass of wine. It’s completely still. No breeze, no traffic, no inner-city noise at all. Of course, the odd seagull is still at it. The worst is over on the seagull front, though, since Liam, my next-door neighbour, took this year’s abandoned fledgling to a rescue centre. It had found asylum in my driveway underneath the branches of the Chilean (or is it Argentinian ? – I can never remember) potato plant. I tried hard to give it water, and even opened a pack of smoked salmon for it. But it was too frightened and kept running away. Do seagulls like smoked salmon anyway ?? I’m glad it’s in safe hands. The noise the young ones make is horribly pathetic, and, what’s more, really piercing – and I can leave the house now without being mobbed by its parent. Anyway, the point of the story is that I have seen through midnight, the time at which I go from being on holiday, to being unemployed. It’s a lovely night. I’m comfortably warm in my shorts and T-shirt. The future is ahead of me and it’s going to be good.

I’m looking out of the window. It’s a bright, blustery day. The branches of the trees are swaying, and the birds are being blown about. The scudding clouds are casting fleeting shadows over the landscaped lawns. The grass was cut last week, but the dandelions, buttercups, and daisies are already back and moving in waves with every gust of wind. The road beyond the car park is full of cars coming and going. Everything’s moving, big and small. Except me. I’m just sitting here watching.

Approaching the last line of the page.  Big long trill on the C for 8 bars.  Here we go.  One two, two two, OK turn now. Three two, four t.  Come on, turn.  Five two, TURN THE PAGE.  Turn to look at desk partner.  Seven two. AARGH.  Too late !  It gets complicated on the new page with mixed bars of 2 and 3.  One two, one two three, one two three, one two, one two , one two three.  Is this bar a two or a three one, and precisely which one is it ?  It’s nearly half a page before I find the way back in.  Note to self.  Write TURN HERE six bars earlier and in bigger letters.

We’re in! Centre Parcs, Sherwood Forest. Anne must have clicked on the button for a villa near to the centre by mistake because we are so close it isn’t worth using a bike to get there. All we would be doing would be pushing the bike across the road.

What’s more when we arrived there was no room in the car park so they asked us to drive straight in and park outside the villa. So we got in early, were unpacked early and got back to the car park as soon as they let everyone else in which in turn meant we got one of the parking spots nearest to the centre. Result all round really.

Now we’ve settled in, arguments settled over who gets which room, and I’m settling down on the settee with a cup of tea and a slice of chocolate cake. Aaahhh.

We are here for a long weekend. It’s a perfect short break. It only takes 40 minutes for us to drive here so it is easy.

The biggest downside is that I am forced to sit in front of the TV with the kids watching The Simpsons. There is no escape. Nightmare!