My impending job change has caused some hasty expenditures in the Oddbloke household.
My old job is a 20 minute drive from home. My new job is about 130 miles away, and so I’ll be commuting at weekends and living in a rented room during the week.
This has necessitated the purchase of a second car … as if we didn’t have enough trouble maintaining the first one.
On the bright side, this second car is for transporting my fat ass only (and not myself, my wife, my kids and the dog) and so I have used this as an opportunity to buy the two-seater toy I have always wanted.
So I’ve bought a Smart ForTwo, thanks in no small way to my parents for lending me the money. And because I’m in touch with my feminine side (or as one friend said “are you sure you’re not gay?”) I’ve bought one with a … noticeable … pattern all over it.
I like to think I’m bringing a tiny ray of sunshine to the drab lives of people around Derby. It is well worth it, to see people’s faces as the sight of my wheels pulls them – even temporarily – from their mundane and dull existence, into a land filled with sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. The simple act of driving to Asda is enough to sprinkle some fairy magic.
I’m happy to look a bit of a plonker; after all, it’s hardly new territory for me. Don’t care what anyone else thinks. It’s fun, the weather is improving, and my commute to work is blissfully free of baby seats, kiddie singalong CDs, and that distinctive scent of urine and vomit left over from last weekend’s family outing.
There’s just one thing that happened to me recently that suggests that perhaps I’ve gone a little bit too far in my choice of transport.
Anyone who owns transport that is “out of the ordinary” will know what I’m talking about when I talk about being nodded-at by a “brother”. If you’re riding a motorbike, it is obligatory to nod at any other biker when you ride past them. You’re part of the in-crowd. You’re different to everyone else on the road. The same applies if you own a trike, a sports car, tractor, or if you’re a bus driver or cabbie. But absolutely not if you’re driving a Ford or Vauxhall – not exclusive enough.
So as I’m driving home the other night in my 700ccs of chick-pulling, born-to-be-wild penis extension, I get nodded-at by someone who thinks he’s a “brother”. But what is he driving? Not a sports car. Not even another Smart.
A sodding mobility scooter, that’s what. Complete with basket on the front.
I was so offended I burnt him off at the lights.