Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Friday, 21 September 2012
Pump Saga - 2
I delivered the nervous Volvo to the hospital for it's pump-ectomy and transplant early this morning, reassuring it that when it came out, it would feel much better.
Note the cunning modification attached to the outlet pipe. Actually, it would be difficult not to notice it, but it is going to be hidden deep in the guts of the car anyway, so cosmetically, it should have no visual impact. The old 850 will still be a head-turner, or so I tell it.
It is a head-turner already, due to the ear-splitting squeal of the brakes as it comes to a halt in the streets. Children clap their hands to their ears as I approach, and their parents look round at me with expressions of irrational hatred. I am told this can only be cured by the complete replacement of the rear brake-units, but right now I do not want to spend any more bloody time or money on the thing, and now that winter is approaching and all it's windows are more or less closed, I don't have to suffer the noise in the same way as all the miserable and impoverished pedestrians on the pavement, who I drench as I sweep through puddles when I drive contemptuously past. Toad of Toad Hall.
Having passed a speed camera yesterday, I put my foot down and accelerated away, giving the old girl full freedom to express herself, but about three times quicker, a modified Audi with about 400 horsepower shot past us at around 100 mph and quickly gaining. That put me in my place. Since acquiring the first speeding fine of my entire career recently, I have started to drive like the old man I really am, and I also show more compassion for the old car it really is. The whip hardly ever comes out these days.
I always remember those old boys - long dead - who owned Jaguars in the 1970s. Having reached the extreme age where they could actually afford one, they drove them around at a snail's pace, and these were the days before the ubiquitous speed-traps. When asked why they had such powerful beasts in the first place, they always replied, "Ah, but it's nice to know that the power is there if you really need it." Smug bastards.
H.I. and me have a recurring fantasy which involves me coming in to a lot of money somehow, like - say - winning the lottery.
In this fantasy, the first thing I do is dump her and start dating a very young and leggy blonde, who I drive around in my newly acquired, open-topped, red Ferrari in the summer sunshine.
The engine growls away as I sit baking in the inevitably slow-moving traffic of central Bath, and my newly dyed, black hair starts dripping dark streaks of sweat down my red face and pristine, hand-made, Jermyn Street shirt as the blonde bimbo sits cooly by my side. H.I. stands on the kerbside as we creep past, and she laughs uncontrollably at me.
Another good reason to be poor. God has spared me from this indignity.