I have a car, but I only get to use it very occasionally. This is not because it’s a rare, vintage beast like a Bugatti Atlantic, that I only drive at weekends. Nor is it because I am too busy to dally with such trivial things as automobiles, except under very special “have to pop to the shops for some cat food before the cat goes crazy and scratches at my face all night” errands. And it’s certainly not because I am so green that I ration my CO2 like it’s the war, and it’s not CO2 but sugar.
Nope, it’s because it’s busted. Over the past three months it’s been in and out (mostly in) of the garage. Each time the symptom of the fault is the same (what causes the fault? as yet we do not know), but it normally has to be back with me for a few days before the fault returns. However, the car excelled itself this afternoon. The garage called me to come and get my steel steed so I could drive it around for a bit to see if it would fail again. It failed all right, the engine point blankly refused to start-up, which is what it likes to do these days, at the garage itself. Me and the mechanics, we all share the same face of misery, only Hitler is laughing at this one.