In God we trust.

On April 1st, I had a car and by 2nd April the car was dead. I had called the car Wibby, Wibby the grape because its licence place was Wibby and it was purple. I know it’s not a very sexy name or a real name in fact but it just stuck. I liked Wibby and despite his rather feminine colour and pink air fresher, he was a boy, a very camp ageing boy. Perhaps in his hey day he enjoyed sex and the city and rolling his r‘s, but now he’d matured and the years had not been kind to Wibby but still in that little battery of his he had some va va voom.

Naturally me and Wibby fell in love, being my first car and all. A purely platonic kind of love, one girl and her purple, camp car. I gave him some TLC in the form of dashboard wipes, I got the hair out of his heater, bought him some new mats, got rid of the “mums taxi” sign, that he confided in me had embarrassed him for years, and spent hours making him look all nice for the other homosexual cars to check him out with. Unfortunately when Wibby felt at his best in years, Wibby was subject to malpractice when a routine operation went catastrophically wrong. Out poured all Wibby’s gearbox oil and the hole to replace the oil was deep in the chasms of Wibby’s underbelly. Twas weird, the first thing I thought of when I saw that honey coloured life force pouring out of his little shell, was that advert for the car phone warehouse with Moby the mobile and he’s walking along the street or something and he gets run over and everyone’s sad. That’s how I felt about Wibby.

Anyway we got a mechanic out and I soothed him as he saw the fog lights of car heaven and heard the horns of all the other automotives of by gone eras beckoning him. But this mechanic didn’t have the tools to sort Wibby out and we read him his last rights from the Nissan manual, consulted his MOT, all the standard parting precautions for his trip to the afterlife.

I of course was distraught, annoyed as well, very annoyed. I shouldn’t of expected more, it seems to be a gift of mine to have these marvellous things dangled in front of me, and I bat at them like a playful kitten, purring, thinking “ahh this is the life.” Then along comes some spiteful, beast of a dog like in the cartoons and gets the object of my affection and kills it, stamps it into the ground and maliciously laughs. A bit like the routine of how Allanah forces me to do things.

I am Tweety pie and fate is Sylvester or I am Bugs bunny and fate is Elma Fudd, you know the one “I gonna catch me a wabbit,” forever in this dangle, take away, dangle, take away, loop.

Fate doesn’t favour me. Well it does, but because its teasing me. There have been other such things in my life I’ve had to endure that have had a similar outcome but that’s for my therapist Basil.

Well anyway I couldn’t bear to look at Wibby in such a state, leaking everywhere and hearing his metallic moans as various tools tore away at his little 1 litre engine. I went for an unsatisfying run. I ate my unsatisfying dinner. I went to church and asked God how he could take such a pretty, innocent thing away from me and received a unsatisfying and silent answer. I pined and I sulked and I mourned like a widow or a younger, less annoying Bridget Jones. I sang along to “All by myself” and gained 10 pounds.

Our morale had hit rock bottom, we had £1650 insurance with a car that didn’t work anymore, in fact we didn’t even have that. The insurance started the next day. Wibby would have spent a full 24 hours in Hades underworld, he would be luke warm in his grave and then with all excitement the insurance company would inform us that Wibby was now legally allowed to be driven. Oh the pain.

But anyway, I was watching a rather unsatisfying episode of Hollyoaks when I sensed, with the telekinetic powers me and Wibby seemed to share, some kind of stirring within his accelerator, a slight hum of his battery. I leaped out the door towards him and saw his limp lights, dully shining. “WIBBY” I exclaimed. Several painstaking hours of determination and the removal of engine components to save our 4 wheeled hero had come up trumps. He was going to be ok. I mean we were worried, because to repair Wibby and get him a nice new engine would have been more than we paid for poor old Wibz, and that would be money we wouldn’t be able to spend in this times of economic crisis.

Now what is the point of this blog I hear you cry, well there is just one point I will conclude with even though, I suppose there’s several lessons here about forgiveness, jumping to conclusions and tucked away in there is a prime Buddhist teaching not to invest my thoughts in to wanting and attaching to these material objects because they will inevitable bring about dissatisfaction and are an opaque barrier between humans and enlightenment. But they’re pointless as I learnt non of that. What I did learn was that it is 100% proven by divine inspiration and theological analysis in this Easter period, that through his birth, death and resurrection, Wibby is the Jesus of cars.

Your religiously.

Statler.