Middle aged motoring

Is forty three middle aged? Probably.

Anyway, unless you come from a different planet (or Norfolk, much the same thing) you will know that putting fuel in your car now costs roughly the same as the car itself. Public transport isn't an option, as it never goes where you want to go go, it's usually broken, and generally stinks of piss.

So, when it was obvious that Amanda's car was due a few quid spending on it, we bit the bullet, and have a shiny brand new one of these jobbies turning up on Monday.

It's pretty dull (to be honest, it's duller than your average Tory backbencher), but is does 75 to the gallon, produces virtually no C02s (so the government doesn't charge you gazzillions to tax it) and it's going to be the Gumpher family mode of transport from now on.

Unless of course, we have to take off fully loaded with the fuckwit spaniel and other assorted paraphernalia, in which case we'll take this, which is mine.

It doesn't do 75 to the gallon, it does however produce more C02s than all the cows in Wales, and as a consequence does cost gazzillions to tax. It has the redeeming qualities of having a flappy paddle gearbox and going like greased weasel shit, which is fab for humbling spotty chavs revving up their burberry infested vauxhall novas, and by the same effect, making one not feel quite so middle aged. I also, ahem, need it for work.

And before you ask, I am not sploffing cash I don't have in these austere times. I stuck it through the business on contract hire. They can have the cocking thing back in two year's time, I'm sick of losing small fortunes on cars.