142,698

When the tachometer clicked over its final digit with me as the owner, as I pulled onto the forecourt of the garage that was taking Blinky in the slightest of part exchanges for its replacement, it read 142,698 miles. To be honest, it should have been one less but I took a few minutes to run it around the village one more time because I suddenly didn’t really want the journey to end and I preferred our relationship to finish on a nicely even number, and you really can’t, for my money, do much better than an eight.

I managed to keep a certain amount of matey banter going with the garage owner as we filled in the paperwork which transferred various ownerships. I “amusingly” asked if there was any discount for cash (there wasn’t), made some slight enquiry as to whether they were prepared to do a “Harry Potter” style midnight opening for me as that’s when the insurance was going to switch over (they weren’t), forgot completely to mention my newest contender for the prize of “the ugliest car in the world” which I spotted yesterday, and wondered briefly whether I should ask for a quick look at what the money that my bank so readily allowed to be sucked from my account was actually paying for, just in case they’d dropped a boulder onto it since I’d test driven it, whilst trying all the time to keep out of the way of the “real blokes” who were already there when I arrived who were discussing car deals on a much higher financial plane than I’m ever likely to achieve.

After the deed was done and the papers signed, I left with nothing but a piece of paper to show for one of the larger financial dealings of my recent life, and with a vague promise of transport tomorrow, suddenly for a dozen or so hours, I was a pedestrian again.

The garage owner did offer me a lift home and, rather surprisingly, it was to Blinky I was guided, ending my relationship with my loyal transportation of the last eight and a half years in the passenger seat and discussing with the new temporary owner such matters as whether or not it is normal to get emotionally attached to motor cars. He told me that he felt more attached to the average can of lager than anything he ever drove, just climbing out of one and into another with barely a thought. I did wonder whether his more personal human relationships were carried out with the same cavalier attitude but thought better than to mention it.

After all it would have been crass and unfair to suggest such a thing, but I was feeling rather maudlin and allowed this dishonorable thought to pass through my mind, but at least I was wise enough to leave it unsaid.

Still, we’d been through a lot together, Blinky and I, and it seemed a rather ignominious end to our time together so, as I climbed out of the passenger seat with a cheery “see you tomorrow” I found that I couldn’t bring myself to look back, and by the time I had reached my front door, Blinky had disappeared.

I was sure that I would catch a guilty glimpse the next morning as I went to collect his shiny replacement, pressed against the fencing silently screaming “Don’t leave me!”. I can’t bring myself to say “new replacement” because it’s already eight years old and probably well past its prime, but I suppose that it is “new” to me, which will have to do, and with a “mere” 52,717 miles on the clock, I suppose I can at least now look forward to hopefully spending a fair few thousand miles in the company of a new vehicle as I slowly reduce that to wreckage, form a new bond and finally give it a suitably derogatory, yet slightly affectionate and appropriate name to share as another saga of woe begins to unfold. These names have to be earned, you know...

Meanwhile, as I spent a night in a sort of “between the cars” limbo, it was to Blinky that my thoughts turned. Memories of our first trip out and a picnic eaten sitting in the back of the car before thundering along country lanes in the days when its engine still had a little “umph” in it. Holidays driving to Wales, and the Lake District, to Hay-on-Wye, and Essex and an early jaunt to the Edinburgh festival where I worried incessantly about where I had to park it. Another, longer and more exhausting trip to Scotland, where the windscreen started to leak and left me with a soggy foot. The various massive garage bills that left me exasperated but still convinced that repairs were cheaper than total replacement if it kept Blinky on the road for another year… and another…

But, sadly, not another. Not any more. Blinky’s time with me is now formally and completely over. Despite a sudden desire to set myself an essay entitled “The Last Time I Saw Blinky” instead of completing the relevant forms, the paperwork is now all signed and already on its way to the DVLA in Swansea. Officially, in the eyes of the law, Blinky is no longer my car, but just a car I once owned, and, a part of my life was taken away with it when it was driven away that night. Whether or not that mechanic does feel any emotional attachments to motor cars, I still do, and, because I can sometimes be a silly old sentimental fool, I really can’t help but hope that they’ll be nice to Blinky.