I named my car Henry when I got him 5 years ago. He is a 15 year old bottle green Mazda, with a grey tweed interior. With the tweed, and the overwhelming desire for him to be reliable, I thought Henry was a fitting name.
And most of the time, he does really well for me. He starts a bit dodgy - a new starter motor has been required since I got him. He hates the cold, especially in the mornings. He has steered me into life-saving swamps. He has zoomed me up and down the New England countless times. He has been a good egg.
Sparky hates him. "Scrap Metal." Though not all of us can swan about in a brand new Rav4.
I know he is a bomb. But to me, he is Tha Bomb.
Until he decided to unceremoniously shit himself in the drive thru at Oporto. A guilty pleasure on a Friday night, with extra, extra chilli... OK, maybe the staff know my order now...
Battery. Dead. Groaning and choking.
Phone call to NRMDad, swooping in to the rescue with the jumper leads in the Merc (27 year old Merc...) and I was on my way again.
The things that annoy me the most about this situation:
a) This is a shitty way to spend a Friday night.
b) Sparky is proven correct. Grrr.
c) Admitting to my parents that I am partaking in fast-food. Junk guilt still exists, even though I have smashed through the 30 age barrier.
d) Henry is NOT living up to his reliable name.
And now I have to ponder The Next Car question...?
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