Kevin Page: Love the old banger; love a new 'old' car even more

We are fortunate to have have two cars in our family.

Naturally, Mrs P gets to drive the bright, shiny relatively new one which purrs along with stuff like cruise control and that Bluetooth thing on the fancy radio.

I say "naturally", but now I come to think of it I don't think we ever had a vote.

She basically decided it would be "hers" the day we got it ... maybe it matched her new handbag or something?

Anyway ...

So she's got the good car and I've got the old banger. You know the type I'm sure — you might even have one yourself.

It's that good old reliable second car you'd had for years. Mileage is through the roof, bit of rust or discoloured paint here and there and sometimes it makes odd noises, sort of like those that come from various part of your grandad when he's asleep.

But it has never let you down. It's carried wet dogs and the kids, too, and from footy, muddy gear and all, and you've filled it with stuff and taken it to the dump more times than you care to remember.

And it smells. Even though in summer you occasionally leave all the windows down hoping the pong disappears, it doesn't.

Nor does anyone meet your secret desire and pinch it so you can buy something else with the insurance.

I have to admit that lately my thoughts have been on a new, old car, if that makes sense.

Matter of fact, I've seen one. It's red — enough said.

I've mentioned it quite a few times of late to Mrs P but she hasn't taken the hint.

The last time I mentioned it was in the middle of that cold snap we just had. I'd watched in glum jealousy as Mrs P drove off in the fully heated, frost-free good car which had obviously had a fabulous night in Hotel Garage.

I was just coming down the steps with the mandatory tepid bowl of water to toss over the frozen windscreen.

Unfortunately, it sloshed over my arm as I made my way through the frost so now I was cold, miserable AND I had a wet arm.

It got worse.

I'd already prised the wipers free of Jack Frost, the plan being to merely tip the water on the windscreen whereupon the already moving wipers would clean it all up pronto.

It worked a treat until the wipers sloshed some of the water over me. And obviously, because it just does, that water landed fair square on my crotch.

So off I drove, frozen because the heater doesn't work properly, with a wet arm and a wet crotch which made me look like I'd had some trouble in the early morning bathroom routine department.

My mood hadn't improved much by the time Mrs P rang me at work around just after lunch whereupon I explained what had occurred.

She'd seen my glum expression, she said, and had been thinking about the car I'd been dropping hints about all over the place.

She would most likely be out when I got home, but to cheer me up there would be a little surprise in the key basket by the front door when I got in.

As she hung up I wondered if I'd heard her correctly. Had she gone and bought the car? Would the keys be sitting at home for me later?

The afternoon went by in a blur - well, as blurry as it can be with a wet arm and crotch taking a while to dry out. Come knock-off time I was out the door and off home as quick as I could.

As expected, Mrs P wasn't there when I got home. New car keys weren't there either ... but my surprise was.

Right next to the key basket were a pair of gloves and a scarf with a note saying: "To keep warm while you are driving."

*Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales and a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Your own tales and feedback are welcome on kevin.page@nzme.co.nz