For the last couple of months I’ve been building my own car, pretty much from scratch. It’s quite a thing I don’t mind telling you. And believe me, I’ve told everyone about it. So okay, I’ve probably made a few rash predictions about how fast it can go, how many people it can carry, but you know what, I’m proud of it, really proud of it, and not ashamed to say so. Not everyone can build a car after all.
But then over the last couple of weeks I’ve been taking it out on the roads. If I’m honest with myself – which I admit is a rare activity for me – it’s not gone quite as well as I’d anticipated. Last Tuesday, for example, I scratched the driver’s door on a neighbour’s boundary wall. And then yesterday, I couldn’t seem to brake at all when turning right which led to a few – shall we say – issues.
And finally, today, I wrapped it around a tree just up the road from where I live. Now don’t worry – I was okay, I was fine. I just sat in the crushed car and contemplated my next move. And then a police officer tapped my window.
‘Is everything okay here sir?’ he asked me. ‘Is there some kind of problem?’
For once, I didn’t know what to say. ‘I just don’t get it,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘I was so certain this was a fine-tuned machine.’