I've been meaning to post for a week. Actually exactly a week and one day. 21st Feb to be precise.
I gave my faithful, reliable, old, beat up, first car in to be "scrapped" for a shiny new obnoxious one. It's MOT was due and every year it was becoming more and more of a mission trying to get it to pass and this year the patch job on the exhaust was really not going to get it through. And as it is with these things; the cost of the repair verses the cost of the car weighed up and if every mechanic you encounter tries to sell you a new car, you know that maybe, just maybe, after eight years together it's time.
I found out today that the dealers who sold me my new car have put the old car up for sale which just winds me up. If I had wanted it sold on; I'd have done it myself. For a measly £100 to £200 pounds I'd have played the part of pimp and taken the pictures to put on Autotrader. But I didn't. I gave the car in to be scrapped. If I could no longer have it, no-one could. The height of creepy possessiveness, but it was MINE. Steering wheel (worn, never had power steering) to kerbed tyres, it was all mine. If I could have, I'd have taken it to the scrap dealers myself and obtained and framed its "certificate of destruction" because it was mine to love in life and mine to love in death. And after I'd stopped "abusing" it, I'd have at least wanted it to have a dignified end. No one could love it like I loved it. No one should. And yet that is greedy and spiteful, perhaps I should be happy that the car may get a new lease of life, some more years with another loving owner, if I can get past the fact that it is no longer mine.
It's traumatic. But I'm sure amusing to most. Standing on the sidewalk crying my heart out, unable to say goodbye to this beat up car, fully resenting the new one you've purchased which is pulled alongside it. It's incomprehensible that this car doesn't belong to me anymore. It's not the one I'm taking home. It's not the one I'm supposed to have the second keys for. That it is illegal for me to drive off with it now. "They took my car," I wailed to my bemused poor brother, "They're taking my car." The fucking irony is that I'm letting them.
We're such a throwaway generation. Seeking to find the new and the shiny. My car was old but it never ever let me down. It was simple but it always made me happy. It was small but it was the car that took me and my friends everywhere. It protected me from my own stupidity, my terrible driving. It helped me move house. It took me all over the UK. It was my roof when I never felt I had one. It was my space. And I let it go. And now it seems it wasn't because it was close to death either.
ETA: I told my friend I was dealing with a death this week not a bloody divorce. I never realised it was a relationship. But it was. I knew that car intimately. Noone else could drive it like I could either. Grown men would get in and struggle with the lack of power steering. And the new one.. I don't know it. Yes it's a car like any car but I don't know it. We've been matched together via checkboxes, a potential love story, very much an arranged marriage.