What I ought to have bought was a mobility cart and a year’s pass to the Bingo Hall. What I ended up with was a 320 brake horse power monster I am too terrified to drive.
My father in law has long had a sneaky liking for my ridiculous cars but has never been that upfront about it. To my face he has always recommended the Morris Minor and I am sure he would have been very happy had I bought the mobility cart.
When he saw the ridiculous effort I eventually settled on he told me gleefully that Sadiq Khan will be running me out of town within two years. Not only that, he lugubriously told me it would be my last car. Whether he has some weird foresight of my imminent demise or whether (in his usual way) he is working on some obscure actuarial principals, I know not.
I suppose he thought I should be putting it into savings for an old folk’s home. Perhaps he was right.
The question only came to mind today because I had to open the bonnet. I hadn’t done so before and when I saw the gleaming pile of sophisticated technology it revealed I did wonder what in god’s name I had done. And why.
I drive everywhere in London at about 20 miles an hour. I will often tootle along a motorway quite happily at 60. So quite why I deemed it necessary or advisable to buy something which does almost 3 times the legal speed limit and heads off at traffic lights like a dragster is beyond me.
Normally it is my son who eggs me on into such absurdities. I can not blame him for this one. I had started out looking at a Smart car as a run around for our minuscule cottage in Kent. I seem to recall one could buy something very pleasant for little more than the mobility carts favored by all and sundry in our little seaside town.
Then for some reason, which now escapes me, I got it into my head that the thing I ended up buying was a bargain. It was a year old with low mileage and the super duper version was £x less than the brand spanking new one.
When I mentioned this to my father in law he told me that £x ( my apparent “saving”) would actually have bought me the brand new Morris Minor of my dreams anyway. Why do I never listen to the old boy?
Leaving aside the question of reckless and stupid expense there is also the equally serious matter of crass hypocrisy.
Why bleat about the world poor and the homeless if you are just going to hose money down the drain on some foolish bauble?
God knows. I can only say that I unashamedly do not practice what I preach and despite being very upset indeed about the billions of poor sods living in abject misery I seem incapable of reining in my baser impulses.
As a Buddhist sympathizer perhaps I will be re-born as a worm next time round. Serve me right.