29 September 2006

Better than diggin' a ditch

Sad Little Clancy was in such dire need of a wash it was impossible to discern her delicate bronze colour beneath the thick coat of the grime. We found ourselves in such a terrible state of dishevelment that none of the other cars in the street would park near her in case any dirt blew onto them. Poor Sad Little Clancy resembled a little Dickensian street urchin; slightly consumptive and in need of a good scrub.

I took Sad Little Clancy to get some tender loving care at a Hand Wash Establishment. I was tipped off by a friend who put the frighteners on me about the horrors of the modern, violent automatic car wash. Near my old gym, on Cricklewood Lane, is a little garage with a big forecourt. It is teaming with men wielding powerful jet hoses, giant sponges and chamois leathers. There is some debate as to whether they are Russian, Kosovan or Albanian which goes to show how ignorant we are about our East European brethren in NW2.

Well, parked in the queue behind a Mercedes and in front of a Porsche (obviously over from hideous Queens Park) I did wonder whether Sad Little Clancy, as a lowly G reg Nissan Micra, would get any attention. Then when one of those women with long blonde hair and permatans, that men seems to find so attractive, stepped provocatively out of her Mercedes I thought we were there for the duration.

But no. Sad Little Clancy was seized upon like a packet of fags at a health spa. There were six burly Balkanesque types spraying and sponging, washing and waxing and before Sad Little Clancy or I knew where we were she was shiny and bright as a new penny outside and clean and fresh smelling inside.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the man as I gave him £7 which I considered an absolute bargain. I looked over to Blondie’s Mercedes where one despondent little chap was half heartedly dragging a limp sponge across the bonnet of her luxury vehicle.
‘Honestly,’ said the man rolling his eye. ‘Car not even need cleaning. Not like your car. Your car filthy filthy dirty.’

Across the forecourt four of his colleagues were admiring Sad Little Clancy’s rear end with such lip licking delight I felt terrible when I drove her back home and deprived them of her rusty beaten up charms.

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