“I’ve just had a horrible thought,” I told the girls at work yesterday. “If my car was stolen and the police officers asked me what type of car it is, I’d just say red and then call Tracey for more details.”
At home I’ve only ever referred to my little car at The Red Rocket (for accuracy reasons Tracey prefers to call it The Red Bucket). I’ve no idea what the thing actually is. Unless Shitheap is a brand.
“It’s a Colt, isn’t it?” one of the girls suggested.
I decided to duck out to the car park and look while I was thinking about it.
“You can’t go yet,” my boss told me firmly. “Not until we all but our bets on. I’ve got tabs on Charade.”
This is not an isolated incident.
Anyone who’s been reading my blog posts for a while would know I have no idea about cars. I mean, obviously, I can drive. Again, obviously, not well.
“I’m always impressed with how knowledgeable the young men are at service stations,” my mum said when I was 18 and picked up some weekend work behind the counter of the Caltex Underwood in Brisbane. “They really know their stuff. I’ve always just accepted what they’ve said as gospel.” She shook her head at me. “Not anymore.”
Just how out of my depth I was became evident a short time later when I experienced my first drive off.
“What was the make, model and colour of the vehicle?” the police officer asked me over the phone.
“White,” I said confidently.
There was a pause.
“And the make and model?”
“I’m fairly certain it was either a Holden or a Ford. I can never tell them apart. Is it Holden does the Commodore?”
There was a hefty sort of a pause after that as well. In a possibly related matter, shortly after my bosses had driveway cameras installed.
When I got to go and have a look at The Red Rocket it became clear to me why, besides my complete lack of interest, I didn’t know what type of car it was: all identifying insignia had been stripped off the car by trees, gates and, guessing, other vehicles whose owners were a little unfortunate in their choice of parks. The only identifier I eventually found was on the front grill kind of under the lip of the bonnet, and that’s the end where the engine is so why would I ever go near there?
So my boss won the bet and I get to avoid a potentially embarrassing moment where I have to ask a cop if I can ‘phone a friend’ should some desperate sod ever steal The Red Rocket.
Mind you , I could probably avoid talking to the police altogether and recover the car myself. The theoretical thief wouldn’t get far. The car might look like junk but it runs on small change – I never put more than $5 in the tank.
When not typing away over here and checking his stats every two minutes,
Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his ‘BIG FAMILY little income’ Facebook Page.
’raising a family on little more than laughs’