THOUGHTS ON THE LOSS OF BLINKY

"Is that a tear I see in the corner of your eye, Blinky...?"

Sadly, the time has finally come to bid farewell to my faithful companion of these past eight years or so, because a terrible truth has had to be faced, that entropy and decay have taken their toll, and the prospect of efficiency and renewal needs to be considered, meaning, basically that dear old loyal “Blinky the Wonder Car” is finally having to be put out to grass.

Not for Blinky a final blaze of glory, oh no. Well, not unless there’s a fairly major incident between now and our final parting of the ways. No, for Blinky there will simply be the ignominy of being driven onto the forecourt of my local garage, having its doors locked for the last time (at least by me at any rate) and I shall walk away with just the hint of a manly tear glistening upon my cheek. After that Blinky will be fed to the pack of hyenas lurking at some auction or other, and will be led off to its new life, either broken up for spares, or bought by a hopefully kindly new owner, preferably more like a Squire Gordon than a wicked scrap merchant, for them to nurture it back to health, transform into a magical vehicle by adding some “Chitty” to its “Bang, bang”, or possibly just end up being driven even further into the ground.

That future is unknown to me, and so it shall most likely remain.

It’s probably better that way.

Blinky did not choose to rage, rage against the dying of the light. Neither did Blinky, to its eternal credit, decide to be awkward and break down on the way to meet its fate. Nor did it choose to make things difficult for me in many of the infinite variety of potential ways available to it during this sad time. Instead it bravely, stoically and meekly, took a far, far more noble stance of the “It is a far, far better thing I do now…” type, and  allowed me to drive it to the very garage where it had been serviced for all these years and uncomplainingly allowed me initially merely to go and play with its replacement and find that it was indeed a worthy successor, and then watch as I sold it down the river, because I’m really no expert upon these matters, the decision was made in an unseemly trice. The deed was done, the deal made, the handshake shaken, and thus, with little fanfare, Blinky’s fate was sealed. I hope we managed to part as friends, though, despite that tricky few days after the decision had been made when Blinky still had to put in a few last days of loyal service until the final handing over of the baton, where no doubt all kinds of bitterness, resentment and rage bubbled under the surface of that formerly smooth and shiny carapace as we pootled along the highways and byways.

To be honest, for dear old Blinky, the writing had been on the wall for some time, really. Ever since that incident on our way to our brief holiday when some metal fatigue caused a bit of bother. After all, most of Blinky’s metal was of much the same vintage and, with more regular journeys having to be made to my big new life, and the chill onset of winter being imminent, something appeared to be needed to be done. The final straw had been placed firmly upon that camel’s back. “What are we going to do about Blinky?” as the film title didn’t quite have it, was nevertheless the thought crossing my mind with growing regularity.

I have to be honest and admit here that I really dislike changing my cars. It’s never a fun moment because I do feel a genuine attachment to the old one, because we generally go through so much together as we are partners for probably quite a few years longer than most people are with their vehicles. So many memories across so many years that it really is a bit of a wrench when they start to get a bit old and run own, and my affection for them (and general carefulness with the pennies), usually means that I hang on to them for far longer than is probably sensible. For example, both my local garage and me are fully aware of Blinky’s many shortcomings, which meant that they were hardly able to offer me a hugely decent sum on the part-ex. But then, historically, when it comes to my old cars, those sorts of offers rarely are, and I’m usually so grateful that I don’t have to come up with some other way of disposing of my old friend that I’ll take whatever I’m offered.

Then there’s always the tricky matter of whether the replacement really is actually any good or is a bit of an old turkey. The Lesser Blogfordshire coffers are never likely to be able to stretch to a brand new motor car under any circumstances, so I’m always going to be traveling through that valley of death we know as the “used motor trade” with its many pitfalls and terrors. Unfortunately, the only people I know with any real mechanical knowhow are the very same people whom I was likely to be buying my replacement car from. This, of course, does quite possibly lead to rather a massive conflict of interest over these things, but as its most likely to be them servicing the thing as I corrode its current efficiency down to rust, at least we’ll be traveling that particular road together.

There’s also the possibility of massive universal irony to have to contend with, meaning the possibility that, having spent more years than is advisable driving around in something that might make the average skip look sleek and desirable but which would cause me little emotional pain if it were to come a slight cropper due to vandalism or ineptitude in a car park, I would find myself in those circumstances instead owning a vehicle where the consequences seemed suddenly less superficial and somewhat more significant. Wrong time. Wrong car. I still recall the tale a schoolfriend once told me of the morning he saw a brand new car driven straight off a forecourt and into a traffic island and destruction. It still makes me shudder as I know that I too am completely capable of doing precisely that myself.

However, for the moment at least, until the first catastrophic breakdown causes my resolve to wobble, I’m trying to think of my new acquisition as a bit of a “lucky break” (fingers crossed), to be honest, not least because it makes me feel slightly better about Blinky. The fates, it seems have, for good or ill, brought a new “us” together, albeit at Blinky’s expense. I had quietly (Shhh! Don’t tell Blinky!) asked the garage to be “on the lookout” for a replacement at the time of the metal fatigue aftermath, to be honest, because, whilst  they did have something “suitable” on the forecourt at that time, it was way above my budgetary limitations. Since then, time has naturally passed and they had forgotten all about little old me and my silly conversation about spending some money there, but I just happened to drop by this week and there it was, just the sort of thing that I had been thinking about, and at about the right price. I even liked the colour. Naturally, they hadn’t rung me, and on that evening, there was no-one available to accompany me for a test drive, so I had to wait, in the full knowledge that A.N. Other had already tried it out the day before.

Sinews had to be stiffened. Loins had to be girded. Risks had to be taken. The test spin was taken the next evening, and, as you already know, a decision was made, about which I will no doubt become increasingly fretful as the hour of transition looms. Ah well, these things are always a bit of a gamble, but as I’m pretty much replacing “like for like” at least the general pitfalls are a known quantity, and I do get my full service, twelve months MOT and some kind of one-year warranty to go with it, so things should be all okay for a little while, at least.

And of course, if they aren’t, and I come to regret my callous abandonment of dear old Blinky, I’m sure that you will all be amongst the very first to hear about it as I regale you with my tales of woe, although I’m sure most of you will side with Blinky, for which I can hardly blame you. After all, deep down inside, so do I.

Thanks for the memories, Blinky. You did us proud!