Every time I think I'm getting on top of my finances, paying off my debts, that I might actually have a little spare change to fritter away on comics or mindless ephemera at the end of the month, my car comes along and knees me in the goolies. And it doesn't even have a knee.
I bought this car a little over three years ago. Aware that it'd probably be the last time I could afford such a purchase for a long, long time (knowing I was about to buy a house and take on all the associated gubbins), I asked for recommendations as to the most cost-effective vehicle I could buy. My main criteria was I wanted a vehicle that wouldn't always be in the garage requiring hefty repair bills - I've had enough Fords to know how they yearn for the company of greasy floors and grubby overalls... and don't even start me on the Seat that stole my life savings. (And it called itself a "Friend"!)
Toyota was the consensus. Toyota is reliable. You won't go wrong with a Toyota. And indeed, a few minor teething problems aside, the Toyota did me right. Until the warranty expired...
The first service I took it for post-warranty cost me £600. And that wasn't even at a main dealer. I was still wincing from that a few months later when the gearbox packed in. Another £500. Last summer it needed a new exhaust which caused me no end of trouble thanks to the useless muppets at KweekFeet. A month ago I took it in for a puncture repair and ended up needing another two new tyres on top. And now the catalytic converter is cracked. £420, including fitting and VAT. (At least the damned thing wasn't affected by the big Toyota Recall of last summer... though if it had been, I would have been able to claim it back.) And don't even start me on the price of petrol...
The worst of it is, the car seems to know. It knows when I have spare cash. Last year when my parents were kind enough to give me some cash to help with the new house... less than a week later the gear box exploded. I got some money for Christmas... and the tyres needed changing. My birthday cash... three days later, it's all gone... and then some.
I know it's crazy to anthropomorphosize a hunk of inaminate metal, but it's not like a car that hates its owner is entirely without precedent. Take Christine. Or The Car. Or even Chugga-Boom. I'm telling you though, if the bloody thing doesn't start treating me a little better, I'm trading it in... for an Audi.
(That was a joke, obviously. I cannot afford an Audi. Even if I could, I can't afford for right-thinking people everywhere to consider me an utter, utter c*** every time I sit behind the wheel. Apologies to those of you who are offended by vile four letter words. I promise not to write 'Audi' again unless I absolutely have to.)
