I’ll be honest, I’m all test-driven out. I am all finance planned out. I am all spec’d out. But I’ve put down a deposit and sometime soon I will be the proud owner of a lovely new car that meets my primary requirement of Being Man Enough To Get Up Birdlip Hill Every Day. She’s great, I’ve already named her – Sophia 2.0, after her predecessor and her engine size, obviously (let it go – I’m quite proud of the name) – and I’m pretty much counting down the days until I can collect her.
In the meantime, it got me thinking about my first car.
Meet Priscilla, Queen of Cardiff…
Priscilla was an F-reg (that’s 1988 if you were wondering) white Ford Escort, an unexpected gift from my sister, her husband and my brother in 2001. She got me from my home in Southampton to my student house in Cardiff and to my then-boyfriend’s house in Pembrokeshire and I loved her because she was my first car.
Sure, she was a little rough around the edges and changing gear was a bit like stirring cake mixture in a pudding bowl but the freedom…! Ah, no more 7 hour National Express journeys (SEVEN HOURS). I could smoke in the car without my parents knowing (I’m pretty sure they knew), I could listen to my tapes loudly and shamelessly sing along… For the few months that she was mine, I loved her unconditionally.
(Alas, The Good Queen Priscilla is now in the great scrapyard in the sky.)