So it's Tuesday, which means a new TicTocc challenge. But in case you think I'm being unusually impressive and 'on-the-ball', actually this is last week's, and yes, I've only just written it. But I wanted to do it because I loved my idea, only any spare minutes, never mind twenty have been in short supply.
Kat asked us all to imagine an inanimate object coming to life. If you follow this link, you can take a look at what everyone else has done. For my part, I've written this.... And for once I've followed the instructions and taken only twenty minutes.
The Car's Home Truths...
Y’know, I regularly ask myself ‘How did I get here?’ How the hell did I get here? And by ‘here’ I mean sitting at the top of this crumbling drive in the middle of nowhere, my paintwork being ruined with sticky tree sap from that wretched Silver Birch, not to mention being coated by the dry soil blown as dust from her miserable vegetable patch, the part of her garden which so encapsulates her life: all bluster and talk, grand plans and castles in the sky, but when it all comes down to it, nothing to show but a few scraggy plants and whole lot of emptiness.
It wasn’t like this with my last owner: oh no. She took pride in me, and the same in herself. I can see her now, striding towards me, her hair immaculately pressed, her suit freshly-cleaned, and her un-scuffed shoes polished and gleaming in the sun. She’d open my door, shut it gently, and say ‘Good morning Guinevere’, before starting my engine, and driving off at a civilised pace, not over-revving and spinning my poor wheels because, yet again, she is horribly late. How I miss those days; how I miss her.
This one – I will not call her ‘my owner’ since I pray it’s only a temporary arrangement – hasn’t even given me a name. I am merely ‘the car’. She pays no attention to me, and I don’t even think she’d bother to top up my petrol where it not for the fact I would then be unable to move. Actually, I devote huge amounts of time to working out which parts of me I can manage to break, thereby meaning I could have a reprieve from being driven around like a common rally car. I quite like the garage where she takes me whenever I break down. They oil the places a car likes to be oiled, if you see what I mean. Mind you, I don’t often have to try and break bits by myself; she manages that. Honestly, I hadn’t been here for a week when she made me collide with the side of the house, ruining my pristine paint. I was distraught, but I consoled myself that at least it would mean a trip to the nice garage to be lovingly restored. Fat chance! She hasn’t even bothered to try and polish out the scratches, and it gets worse. She’s bashed my wing-mirror so many times, it’s now completely broken. But has she bothered to mend it, even though she’s been told it would mean me failing my MOT? Has she heck. I hate living here. I wish I could trade her in for a new owner. I want to go back to my old owner. Any owner would be better than this, come to think of it.
And my lovely interior, oh how it makes me weep. My last owner used to vacuum my upholstery every Saturday. She used to wipe down my dials with a soft, polishing wipe. This one does nothing. I am covered in dust, old parking tickets, empty sweet wrappers, long hairs, sticky sweets and half-eaten chips the children, only marginally more disgusting than she, have rammed down between my cushions. And the worst horror of all – that thing they call a ‘dog’. She lets it ride inside me, and the damned thing sheds its white and black dog-hairs all over my seats. Oh how it makes me shudder. Oh I wish she’d never bought me.
If cars ruled the world, there would be a law against her.