I am not having a good week.
Having been plagued by recurring tonsillitis for the last five years, my long overdue tonsillectomy has been pushed back (thanks, NHS), and it has emerged that work will not be extending my contract past June. This means I’ll have a two week window in which to find a new job, as it is my understanding that potential employers are not keen on interviewing candidates that are unable to speak and bleeding from the corners of their mouths. And in a wonderful twist of irony, I’m currently wandering around in a cloud of WTF because I’m on antibiotics again. For tonsillitis. Hurrah.
However, the icing atop my cake of grief presented itself on Friday evening, when a mouth-breathing moron too involved in her own little world of delicious ignorance to pay any attention to the terrible trials of reality, swerved mindlessly across a lane of traffic, ploughed into my car and wrote it off.
“Don’t shout at me,” she bleated, as I stood there in the middle of Sainsbury’s car park, shouting at her. “I’m having a bad day.” And I saw red. Had housemate N not been there, the thoughts I were entertaining about slamming her stupid head in her undamaged car door may very well have become a reality. Her car was relatively unscathed. Mine was trashed. But apparently that’s fine, “because [her] insurance will pay for it all.”
But what her insurance didn’t pay for was the subsequent hours I spent standing in the rain trying not to kick the supermarket down while I waited for the AA. Or the time spent on the phone to her insurance company – a premium rate number – repeating the same details over and over in a dead, robotic voice. Kudos to Lisa and Hannah at Admiral Insurance for dealing with it all in such a friendly manner, but unless they tell me that they’re going to send a battalion of Storm Troopers to this idiot’s address, I’m just not satisfied. And here’s why.
To say I have little luck with cars is something of an understatement. The coolant tank of my first car exploded in my boyfriend’s face, and then the gear box fell out, and my second car, bought from a ‘sound guy’, was so riddled with mechanical cock ups that the garage very nearly didn’t give it back to me. I bought it for £2,000. I sold it at a car auction for £425. Then I got the Rover.
Yes, mock if you will. A Rover. It had faux walnut veneered panelling, and the seat covers were made out of what could only be redundant old people’s home curtain fabric. And the sunroof leaked. It leaked so much that before trips to the supermarket in my uni days, my housemates and I would have to gather whatever receptacles we could find to scoop the lakes of water from the foot wells.
The speakers were bust. The back wiper didn’t work. For a long time the driver’s side window wouldn’t open, meaning car parks offering a ticket payment service required meticulous positioning equations. In the four years I’ve owned it, I’ve been stranded on the sides of country roads, main roads, dual carriageways and even my own drive. I’ve met at least half a dozen not always helpful or indeed coherent AA repair men. I’ve replaced the tyres, the brake discs, the brake pads, the coil, the exhaust, the catalytic converter, the battery, the coolant tank and, most recently, the bloody head gasket. And the only reason I went to the almighty expense of replacing the head gasket is because I knew that everything else in the damn thing was new, and that it’d prove to be a more economically sound investment than buying a new car. Unless, of course, an unbelievably stupid oxygen thief smashes into the side of it, undoing all the work and money bestowed unto it with bittersweet emotion, because she’s had a bad day.
But this is fine. As I have now had several bad days, this logic leads me to believe that I am well within my right to drive into whomever I choose, and maybe throw some bricks through windows to boot. But don’t shout at me, I’m having a bad day.