One of my longest and most straight forward relationships has ended. Abruptly. Dramatically.
Reluctantly. Fourteen years I was faithful and true. It was a two-way street.
We never cheated on each other. It never got boring. Rarely predictable, easy on the eye, he was reliable, low maintenance and always there in a crisis.
There will never be another one like him. Yes, dear Reader, as I write this, my beloved sports car is being stripped down for parts and crushed into the size of an air-fryer. All done through a Company who I loathe because the inane tune for its TV advert gets stuck in your ear.
Oh, the injustice. The tears at parting. The guilt I felt leaving that sleek sliver two door turbo in a scruffy parking lot for some stranger to fiddle with.
Would they appreciate the beauty of the mechanism that lifted off the roof, folded it into the boot, whilst simultaneously repositioning the windows? Never. To me it was balletic, like the opening of . Would they know where the secret James Bond-like compartment was in the dashboard? Unlikely.
The decision to part ways went against every bone in my body. I prefer to keep hold of stuff and avoid buying new. It was a classic in line with the maxim of style over practicality every time.
It was fun to drive. And with the price of second hard cars now, a similar like for like replacement is out of the question. ‘It’s the end of an era’, someone said.
That made it worse. But all my women friends unanimously agreed, it’s never .