Car Trouble. By The Doktor.

Burrowing deep into the web of chaos that serves me as a life, I have been experiencing what the cognoscenti describe as 'car trouble'.

I drive (when that is possible) a Vauxhall Novella (so called because it is so short). This is more or less half a Vauxhall NO-VA, which, as any fool knows, means 'won't-go' in Spanish, which is, incidentally or not, where the poor little thing was assembled from tin-cans and washing line and youthful rust. Last night I drove this machine in pitch darkness without lights, as the alternator has ceased to function, for several miles down windy lanes to my remote fastness in the clinging mud of Chailey, and had it not been for the undeserved assistance of my mum, your mum, her mum, apple pie and the flag I should not be with you now, wittering on about nonsense. Ah well.

It is surprising even now how something which has made such a contribution to personal freedom as the motor-car, (a contribution perhaps only equalled by the Heckler and Koch semi-automatic machine pistol (capable of firing 140 rounds per second) or the washing-machine) can suddenly be transformed into an embarrassment, a problem, a worry, an absolute bleeding disaster, leaving you worse off than if you had got there on your legs, which would at least indicate that there was some possibility of walking back again. Suddenly (as I said) the means of travel is transformed into a static metal lump, incapable of motion and insensitive to all pleading, an inert mass of grease, rust, dirt, misery and anguish.

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