...they first make mad.
Talking to oneself again.
I like it. Sure, it's nice. What d'you think? I dunno, up to you. Well I could. But should you? Well the price is OK and it's pretty rare. What about the other stuff cluttering up the carport? Oh we'll find room. What will Ms Philippines say? I don't care; sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. You might live to regret that statement. Well let's have a look anyway. OK, it's your funeral.
A 1972 El Camino pickup, almost spotless except for some sill rust. The stainless steel bar round the rear bed. Original lemon yellow with the black stripes and "SS" logo. A proper 8-track stereo from the days when you didn't need a degree in astro-physics to play music in your car. Lifting the hood reveals a compartment stuffed satisfyingly full of V-8 engine. No catalyser nonsense, just one of those smog pumps that California introduced in the mid 60's. Just need a couple of surfboards in the back and it's pure Beach Boys. Must be one of the last true muscle cars before OPEC and that Georgia peanut farmer with his 55 mph limit conspired to kill off the genre.
ATF is a healthy looking red. Oil a bit black but no clackety lifters and no visible white smoke, just the black residue of a large muscle car being revved up and wasting irreplaceable natural resources as is entirely appropriate. Removing the radiator cap does however reveal something more reminiscent of Starbucks than radiator coolant. That needs looking at. Four 50% worn Bridgestones with nice white lettering on them. On the road. Satisyingly light and vague power steering as is SOP for all American automobiles. Shocks are stuffed and plenty of body rattles. V-8 burbles well, possibly an intermittent miss on one bank on the idle, maybe number 6. Burnt valve, could be. Great vinyl bench seat so every time you hang a turn your female (well in my case anyway) companion slides into contact with you.
Can you afford this? I don't see why not, my UK old age pension comes good in August. But that's then and this is now and it's peanuts anyway. So? You promised her a shopping trip to Bangkok, remember for her birthday. Thai Air you said, business class. Well I know but that's what Visa is for. You do not need another motor vehicle. Listen mate, needing is not the same as wanting. Why do I have to have a reason for everything? She will want one you pink fluffy dice
I get the feeling that every time I argue with myself I lose those arguments.
Seller of lovely pickup drops me back at house. My partner awaits, arms akimbo, legs astride and in her we are not amused mode. You're late. Am I? Yes. What for? The carpenter is here to give his estimate on that deck I want extended on the back verandah (thrusts out sheet of paper with 6 figure Peso numbers on it). Oh, yes. I remember.
See I told you. You still want that truck? Well, in the circumstances perhaps better not. Wise move old chap if you ask me. God you're so smug. But you know I'm right. You nag as well. Well I'm your alter ego, it's my job. I hate you. I know, take a number, sit over there and wait to be called.
I used to be indecisive, but now I'm not so sure,
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Hmm, uncannily similar to my thoughts about a custom trike.
For a cure to this form of madness, just repeat after me: "Life is hard, but I cope" - then apply crowbar to remove tongue from cheek.
--
andymc
Vroom, vroom - mmm, doughnuts ...
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