END OF THE ROAD

i wake from dreams of rust

i have booked volky into the garage

for he has been acting strangely of late

protesting a little too much

woodle climbs into the back

for her lift to kiddie prison

i put volky in reverse

depress his accelerator

and...

nothing happens!

i try inching forwards to test if normal drive works

and the gears engage

if i can push volky up the driveway

we should be able to make it to the garage

enlisting the help of mrs fireseed

plus mum, dad and the postman

we heave volky out onto the road

but shifting our trusty volkswagen proves difficult

my revs are not reaching his wheels

the power is draining away somewhere in the distribution chain

we amble along at a pedestrian speed

crawl painfully up a steep hill

and are faced with the terrifying prospect

of crossing the bristol road

in the face of a stream of rush-hour traffic

a38 navigated

an emergency traffic light forces us to lose momentum again

as i plan my attack on the next hill

the revs get louder and noisier

until the needle on the dashboard leaps to 60000 rpm

and i see smoke emerging from the bonnet

just like in a breakdown scene from a film

as we come to a halt

there is a sickening finality to it all

i feel like icarus flying too close to the sun

it suddenly occurs to me

that just like every human being

every car is destined to wind up in the same place

an automobile graveyard

volky is towed to the garage

pronounced terminally ill with a ruptured gearbox

and escorted back home

to be carted away imminently to the knacker's yard

chance has it that some korean friends of ours

are selling their own car at a rock bottom price

and hours later i am driving the as yet nameless vehicle home

i park it guiltily on the drive

in full view of volky

whose pride of place has now been usurped

by an oddly similar dark green saloon rival

younger and fresher

and a hundred thousand miles less travelled

glancing from one car to another from an upstairs window

i am struck by the unflattering contrast

the graceful sweep of volky's heavy but well proportioned curves

next to the clumsy profile of his superficially similar successor

like a well bred shire horse

standing beside a common cart pony

to bed i go with a heavy heart