David climbed into his car seat in the front of my car today and tried to do his straps up.
“Go, go, GO! Vroom, vroom, vroom, vroom, GO!”
“You want to go for a drive?”
“Des. Vroom!”
I turned the key in the ignition.
“Hooray! Go, go, GO! Vroom!”
…and off we went.
I adore having a toddler. Expecially one who loves driving as much as I do.
Parked outside my front door is my little yellow baby: Marmite.
She’s a 2001 Fiat Seicento Schumacher. She has a 1.1l engine which produces 53bhp, and a power-to-weight ratio of 0.0667 PS/kg. Because she’s a Schumi, she has an Abarth bodykit, a low-geared gearbox, and extra special graphics. She also has a number: 0870, which means she was the 870th Schumi (of 3000) to be built.
I love my little car. I passed my driving test in her, had my first accident in her, and paid for my first set of new tires to go on her. She’s been to Devon, to Lincolnshire, to Kent. In the summer she’s coming to France. She’s been driven in the rain, the sun, and the snow, although the latter didn’t end well and resulted in a £500 repair charge. I’ve spent more on repairs for her in the last year than I paid for her, but she’s worth every penny.
She’s a quirky little thing. If you drive above 70mph (75 indicated) you have to turn the heating and the fan right up to get as much heat off the engine as possible. When I was learning to drive I got very good at hillstarts without a handbrake, because hers didn’t work at all, even though we adjusted it and replaced the cable and replaced all the other parts. She often needs jump-starting, although less so now that she’s had a new battery. She’s currently off the road waiting for a head gasket and cooling system replacement; I miss her so much it hurts.
Italian cars are cars you fall in love with. They breathe passion and fire and excitement. (Marmite also breathes steam on a regular basis, but that’s another story.) Yes, Joe’s boring Vauxhall Astra has done 200,000 miles, and it’s comfortable, and it’s good for cruising down the motorway, and it’s not made of tin foil, but it doesn’t stir your soul in the way my little Fiat does. Nothing beats driving down the Fosse Way at 60mph, feeling like you’re doing 90, hurtling round corners and keeping your foot to the floor for the whole journey.
Marmite will sit outside my front door for a few more weeks until she has her new parts, and I’ll continue to miss her badly. In a few weeks, when she’s fixed, we’ll pootle down the Fosse Way again, and all will be right with the world.
I like the snow. I like leaving footprints in it. I love taking photos of it, and I love the way it makes the world so much prettier. On the other hand, I don’t like crashing my car in it. I’m getting bored of cold, wet feet every time I go outside, of waking up freezing despite sleeping under six blankets, of getting cold whenever I try to strap David into the car.
It is pretty, though…
