out of my way, peasants
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Following last month's car–taxi interface, the Big Ugly Gas Guzzler's been at the panel beaters for the past few days; fortunately our insurance covers a rental car, and as I wasn't about to haul two kids, two kiddie car seats and a pram across town on the bus, I sent Jack off on Monday to pick it up after work. At 4.30 I received a text message. Holy shit, it said. Ten minutes later the back door opened and Jack stepped in, grinning like a motherfucker. Behind him was a gleaming SUV, the marque of which I will omit to mention lest you assume I actually give a crap. Because unlike many, I don't consider a car, any car, to be an object of erotic contemplation, or erotic anything else for that matter. To me it really is just a great big annoying smelly money-incinerating machine to get you and your crap and your children's crap from A to B when you would probably rather have stayed home in the first place. In fact, the only times I've owned a car have been in circumstances of strict logistical necessity, viz.: a. while doing shift work in Auckland, where there are no bus services at 3.00 am and – surprise! – the area health board wouldn't stump up for a taxi; b. while pregnant and no longer able to cycle to work and we were having a kid anyway so we might as well get a car and; c. once I'd actually had the kid, and yes, I know there are some virtuous types who manage the sprog thing without a car but I'd rather not have to load my kids into a bike trailer for emergency dashes to doctors, for instance.
So here we were, capitalist bastards for the week, so with some trepidation I took the monstrosity out for a test drive. And all I can say is, I can see why people are always reversing over toddlers in them: the visibility's for shit. It was like driving a tank, but not in a good way, which would involve an actual tank, with ordnance, with which you could then, if you chose, do as you saw fit to rid the road of SUV drivers. Wankers.
On the other hand, it was rather fun picking up Jack's sister, back from Switzerland for a visit, from the airport in. Except now she thinks we're all successful or something; hopefully she won't notice when we swap it back for the non-gleaming station wagon. Which is back from the garage earlier than expected, but every time I suggest that we can now get shot of the rental, certain lower lips start to wobble.
1 Comments:
You need a "Soccer Mom" bumper sticker, and yer all set.
