A Car-talouge of Catastrophe

There is a reason I don’t own a Ferrari, other than the fact that I don’t have enough money to afford one, something would happen to it. Something ludicrous, a quirk of fate or once in a lifetime sequence of events would befall it and it would break, someone would break it, or failing that, a meteorite would fall out of the sky and land directly on top of it.

Last week, whilst sat eating our tea, we heard an almighty bang. Outside, there had been another crash. This time however, we found ourselves unwittingly involved. One of the vehicles had somehow managed to lose control, spin and crash into the rear of our car which was parked for the night by the side of the road. The impact of that, pushed our car onto the footpath and forward into the car parked in front of ours, the neighbours shiny, near vintage Mercedes. The female driver luckily was unhurt, which is the main thing of course, but yesterday, our worst fears were realised when the garage called and confirmed what we had suspected, that our car had been written off. This is just the latest event, in a catalogue of prangs, bangs and damn right thievery which seems to have unluckily befallen us, detailed for your reading pleasure below.

The Renault Clio:
Nothing drastic, but a sign perhaps of what was to come. Will, my good friend, despite not being able to keep still, broke the sunroof in an over eager attempt to open it during one sunny road-trip to Manchester. This meant that the car for ever whistled as the sunroof never closed correctly. He also, on the same trip annoyingly kept pressing the hazard warning light on and off whilst driving around the M25 on our same return trip. The parts of any Renault are susceptible to over use, and this proved to be the case. Even when off, the hazard warning lights would turn themselves on and keep flashing until the battery was completely drained. A welcome visit each time I left work and was on first name terms with the AA who would have to be summoned just so I could make it home.

The Blue Vauxhall Astra:
Where do I start? First off, parked on the road, next to the flat we lived in at the time. I wake up in the morning to see that someone had thrown a jack at the windscreen. This left the windscreen just about in tact, and a nice couple of juicy dents in the bonnet as the jack bounced down and onto the road - never did find the person responsible!

Shortly after, driving back from work, at the bottom of Singlewell Road, someone crashed into the back of me after failing to slow down. I pulled over, but they couldn’t get their car started. I got out, helped push the car sensibly to the side of the road, but noticed that the car had no keys, and was just a bundle of wires from the steering column. The car had been nicked, and the guy who crashed into me offered, by way of compensation a series of power tools and expensive champagne which he had in the boot to help pay for the damage. A burglar with a conscience?

Then there was the angry little old lady who reversed out of her drive without looking, too late for me to avoid, but just enough time to limit the damage. Six months of legal arguments until I received her version of events. It was clear that she had no idea where I had come from, and had not looked where she was going, else she would have clearly seen me coming. After my dossier of fact, she claimed liability, but far, far more hassle was caused than was really needed.

Finally, Stephanie, who inherited the car as her main form of transport when I started commuting up to London. Sitting happily as the last car in a line of traffic, until a speeding truck misjudged the gap and crashed quite heavily into the back of her. She was fortunately just fine, apart from a semi-serious case of whiplash and the good blessing that she had just dropped the little man off and wasn’t on her way to do so.

The Little Red Corsa:
We decided to downsize, save on fuel economy and car tax, brought a little Corsa, just to get from A - B as cheap as possible. Until someone decided to climb into our front room window during the middle of the night whilst we were sleeping and run out the front door with Stephanie’s handbag and car keys. A nice little car, for nothing, for someone with the morals of a alley cat. It was found nine months later burnt out in Sevenoaks, about 15 miles away as the crow flies.



The Turquoise Vauxhall Astra:
This was the one I told you about, whilst we were eating our tea, got in the way of a pirouetting Ford Fiesta and is now good for scrap, along with the car that caused the damage and the poor near vintage Mercedes which too has been written off.

The good thing is of course, that nobody has been hurt. We can list these calamities with a wry smile, there are plenty of people a lot worse off. The only one that really leaves a sour taste is the stolen vehicle, and how the perpetrator is still walking free, although I’m sure he’ll have his comeuppance one day. But still, for us, it’s back down the showroom with a sky high insurance premium through no fault of our own. Although this time around, I think we’ll dodge the Vauxhall forecourt, I’m sure it’s not their fault, but we’ve got to try and change our luck somehow!