You May Not Drive

We had the best car growing up.

It was a yellow Fiat saloon.

The seats were walnut brown. The interior was various shades of mud and sun-kissed polyvinyl.

Rust-red paint licked out from the wheel arches, giving the car a “just fled the battlefield” vibe. This paint was designed to prevent any further rust from forming out of sheer pity.

The paintwork was faded. The chrome was flecked. But the car moved, and that little yellow tub took us all over the country.

We’d squeeze in, Dad would slot in a Massive Attack tape, and we’d hurtle on to the A406 in a puff of smoke.

By the time we hit the motorway, the driveshaft would be clanking in time to track four, and we’d holler out the opening lines of one of the greatest songs ever:

“Though you may not drive…a great big Cadillac…”

Whenever we arrived after a long journey, Mum would pat the dashboard and say, “Thanks, little car.”

And she meant it. 

We loved that heap of shit so much that when it finally limped to the scrapyard, Dad found the only other one still puttering around and bought it.

We loved that one even more.