A galoot with a ciggie in one hand and a mobile phone in the other rear-ended my shite heap of a car on Saturday. Damn him.
There I was, minding my own business, waiting to exit my local shopping centre carpark when whomp!
I was tempted to blame myself for the sorry scenario (any excuse for another guilt trip) until a middle-aged gentleman stomped over and started abusing the ciggie/mobile phone-holding galoot.
“You were texting on your phone and NOT PAYING ATTENTION. You SHOULDN’T BE TEXTING WHEN YOU’RE DRIVING …”
And I was like, ooooh, OK, not my fault at all. He was TEXTING WHILE DRIVING. Bloody idiot.
At least I wasn’t dead, like the old bloke I saw the other day. Some idiot was texting on his phone when he crossed two lanes of traffic and collected the poor old fella on his way to pilates. The last thing you expect on your walk to pilates is to be collected by a ute. It was a chilling reminder to me that you never know when your time might come.
Anyways, back to the prong in my local carpark who didn’t cause a fatality.
I swore a bit, then climbed out of the car to discover it looking just slightly more dishevelled than it had prior to the accident. So it was difficult to work up too much ire. Especially when he was being so apologetic.
Because our car is an absolute shite box.
Case in point: as I was examining the bok choy in the supermarket prior to the collision, my car key collapsed in two and fell on the veg department floor. Sigh. I’ve since had to stickytape it back together. Stylish.
When I got home, I called Husband and launched into the “I’ve been in a car accident, but it wasn’t my fault” spiel. Followed quickly by the “we must get a new car immediately” spiel.
Because honestly, why the fark would you bother repairing our shite box?
Husband felt that I’d taken a few too many steps in the whole argument. He strenuously believes we should fix the shite box. Whereas I have already started Googling end-of-financial-year car deals and imagining myself behind the wheel of Fanta orange KIAs.
(Geoff, my dear blog follower, in case you’re reading – do you have any advice on 4WDs for city dwellers under $30,000?)
The shite box was purchased in 2002. It is battered and dinged and sticker-covered and scuzzy. I don’t think I’m being extravagantly acquisitive wanting a new one. I’ve even secretly admitted to myself that if I get a new one my swimming pool plans go out the window (don’t tell Husband) and I’m OK with that. Because we REALLY need a new car.
How was your weekend? Any bingles?