Good morning Gentle Reader
A Bowie lyric for the title of today's ramblings. And hey, why not? It seems appropriate. Today I thought I'd just give you a brief update on some things that have changed in the last seven years while I've been wandering the wilderness of Writer's Block. Let's kick off with the trivial:
I no longer have the Rabbit (my beloved Alfa Romeo Brera for those who've missed earlier posts in this neighbourhood). Hmm? On reflection is this really trivial? It's my baby we're talking about here. Well, I suppose I'll let you make up your own minds up on that score. So, you're asking, why has she gone? I hadn't tired of her, she was still as lovely as the day I collected her from the dealer. No, I wasn't feeling pangs of environmental guilt about the millions of carbon dioxides she poured out of her exhausts. (For the benefit of the mis-educated who may have been told otherwise CO2 is plant food - the vegetation on this good Earth can't exist without it. So, in driving the Rabbit I was actually helping to feed the lentils so beloved of the Guardian reading classes. You know the types I mean: they continually denigrate the internal combustion engine as one of Lucifer's most heinous creations, while seeing nothing wrong in jetting off to some foreign clime for a wee bit of eco-tourism. Can they spell h-y-p-o-c-r-i-s-y?)
No, the loss of the Rabbit was down to simple economics. I was spending £2500 a year on fuel alone (and I was only covering 8000 miles a year - ouch!). A set of tyres for her lovely wheels cost a thousand quid (and would only last two years - more ouch!). And, contrary to popular belief, I'm not as rich as Croesus. Put simply, it just wasn't sustainable (now there's a word you won't find in this blog too often). So, a more realistic set of wheels was required. I tried a hybrid (don't panic, it wasn't a Prius, there's no need to have me committed to the rubber room) but it too carried unexpected running costs (a service every 5000 miles, what in the name of all that's unholy is that about?). So it too had to go. Next came a diesel (shock horror!); but again no need to have me committed, it was a Scirocco diesel. Nice.
That sufficed for a few years, but in the end I realised something was missing: fun. The Scirocco was just too sensible, too grown up. So it too had to go. And probably just in time, as the political winds seem to be swinging against diesel. The city clowncil (no, that's not misspelt) is proposing to charge diesel cars 20 quid - a day! - for the 'privilege' of driving into town. Of course, buses and taxis (both of which spew out far more NO2 and particulates than the private car which actually spends most of its day parked somewhere) will be exempt from this penalty. Once again, can they spell h-y-p-o-c-r-i-s-y?
[At this point I was going to embark on a lengthy discourse about Edinburgh clowncil's ludicrous transport policies, but that's a post for another day. I would've explained how the solution would require lampposts and piano wire; hey, it worked on Mussolini. But any more wrongthink on my part today and the local Stasi will be knocking on my door (remember this is the country where a man can be - indeed has been - arrested for teaching his girlfriend's pug to seig heil; yea fucking gods)].
Anyway, the upshot is that I now drive a Mini Cooper and very nice it is too. Seems to tick all the relevant boxes. Ok, it doesn't quite have the drama of the Rabbit, but it is fun. And if I want to turn heads when I'm out on the road there's always my lovely (and loud) Harley.
Right, enough for now. I was going write more but I feel the need for a bacon sarnie (ethical bacon of course, Art-Girl insists). And I'd better enjoy it before bacon gets banned in the interests of 'tolerance', 'inclusion' and 'community cohesion'. Yes, there will be a future post on NewSpeak.
Ok, where's the bacon.
Chin chin
A Bowie lyric for the title of today's ramblings. And hey, why not? It seems appropriate. Today I thought I'd just give you a brief update on some things that have changed in the last seven years while I've been wandering the wilderness of Writer's Block. Let's kick off with the trivial:
I no longer have the Rabbit (my beloved Alfa Romeo Brera for those who've missed earlier posts in this neighbourhood). Hmm? On reflection is this really trivial? It's my baby we're talking about here. Well, I suppose I'll let you make up your own minds up on that score. So, you're asking, why has she gone? I hadn't tired of her, she was still as lovely as the day I collected her from the dealer. No, I wasn't feeling pangs of environmental guilt about the millions of carbon dioxides she poured out of her exhausts. (For the benefit of the mis-educated who may have been told otherwise CO2 is plant food - the vegetation on this good Earth can't exist without it. So, in driving the Rabbit I was actually helping to feed the lentils so beloved of the Guardian reading classes. You know the types I mean: they continually denigrate the internal combustion engine as one of Lucifer's most heinous creations, while seeing nothing wrong in jetting off to some foreign clime for a wee bit of eco-tourism. Can they spell h-y-p-o-c-r-i-s-y?)
No, the loss of the Rabbit was down to simple economics. I was spending £2500 a year on fuel alone (and I was only covering 8000 miles a year - ouch!). A set of tyres for her lovely wheels cost a thousand quid (and would only last two years - more ouch!). And, contrary to popular belief, I'm not as rich as Croesus. Put simply, it just wasn't sustainable (now there's a word you won't find in this blog too often). So, a more realistic set of wheels was required. I tried a hybrid (don't panic, it wasn't a Prius, there's no need to have me committed to the rubber room) but it too carried unexpected running costs (a service every 5000 miles, what in the name of all that's unholy is that about?). So it too had to go. Next came a diesel (shock horror!); but again no need to have me committed, it was a Scirocco diesel. Nice.
That sufficed for a few years, but in the end I realised something was missing: fun. The Scirocco was just too sensible, too grown up. So it too had to go. And probably just in time, as the political winds seem to be swinging against diesel. The city clowncil (no, that's not misspelt) is proposing to charge diesel cars 20 quid - a day! - for the 'privilege' of driving into town. Of course, buses and taxis (both of which spew out far more NO2 and particulates than the private car which actually spends most of its day parked somewhere) will be exempt from this penalty. Once again, can they spell h-y-p-o-c-r-i-s-y?
[At this point I was going to embark on a lengthy discourse about Edinburgh clowncil's ludicrous transport policies, but that's a post for another day. I would've explained how the solution would require lampposts and piano wire; hey, it worked on Mussolini. But any more wrongthink on my part today and the local Stasi will be knocking on my door (remember this is the country where a man can be - indeed has been - arrested for teaching his girlfriend's pug to seig heil; yea fucking gods)].
Anyway, the upshot is that I now drive a Mini Cooper and very nice it is too. Seems to tick all the relevant boxes. Ok, it doesn't quite have the drama of the Rabbit, but it is fun. And if I want to turn heads when I'm out on the road there's always my lovely (and loud) Harley.
Right, enough for now. I was going write more but I feel the need for a bacon sarnie (ethical bacon of course, Art-Girl insists). And I'd better enjoy it before bacon gets banned in the interests of 'tolerance', 'inclusion' and 'community cohesion'. Yes, there will be a future post on NewSpeak.
Ok, where's the bacon.
Chin chin
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