I have come to the conclusion that spending my petrol money on boots was probably not one of my smartest ideas.
I realised this about 8:10AM on Monday morning when I was driving my car, Prince, to Uni. Prince and I have had a fairly decent relationship in the past. He always got me from A to B and I always gave him words of encouragement and patted his wheel caringly when he was having trouble getting it up, a hill that is. We have had our ups and downs like any relationship, admittedly I did once accidentally crash his bottom into a lamppost while I was reversing but in my defence the thing practically pounced at me.
And on this particular Monday Prince was out to seek his revenge:
I was driving along hardly noticing the flashing petrol sign when Prince decided to do a few bunny-hops along the road. Startled I peered at the wheel and tried to talk Prince out of whatever he was thinking of doing next. He went back to driving normally, I do have quite a reassuring voice after all. I thought that would be the end of it but then after a few meters he did it again. And these were not like the smooth playful bunny-hops he displayed the first time. Oh no, these were evil calculated bunny-hops. These bunny-hops meant business.
I was just able to roll him to the emergency exit lane before he finally decided he had had enough. He stopped moving all together and then shut down completely. I got out of the car, which was now mocking me. I’m not sure if you have ever been mocked by a car before, my deepest sympathies if you have, for it is severely cruel.
So there I was stuck in the middle of a highway. I locked Prince and started walking towards no particular destination what so ever. In my head I started going through my options, I could call my friend, “I” but then I would get a big fat; I told you so, and a lecture on spending my money more wisely. I was in no mood for a lecture after all; my Prince had just betrayed me. My friend “J” would probably also be of help but his general belief is that car’s do not have feelings and would try to convince me that this was all my fault. I didn’t particularly want to admit to that fact yet. I turned around glaring at Prince. I am going to leave him there, he can stay there and rust for all I care, let’s see how he likes that. But then I remembered a horror movie that was quite similar to this situation. I remember screaming at the girl on the screen when she walked away from her car and right into the arms of a waiting murderer. I decided I really did like myself quite a lot and did not want to be chopped into a million little pieces so I walked back to Prince and sat on his hood.
I decided to call my dad. My dad was always good in such situations; he seemed to conceal all those around him in a veil of calmness, hypnotising our minds to repeatedly cry “it’s going to be okay.” I always wondered what would happen if he used his powers for evil instead of good. He probably could convince us all we were monkeys if he tried hard enough, then we would all be standing around the car picking at each other’s knits and scratching our underarms. But my dad is fortunately a decent guy and instead he was seeping into my brain trying to convince me that this was my fault and not Prince’s. Although my dad was trying his best I doubt our relationship would ever be the same again. That’s it, I thought, from now on all Prince is getting is tough love. No more cooing, no more fussing, I won’t be speaking to him anymore.
A friend of mine then had to pick me up from the highway, like a first class hooker, and drive me to uni while my dad dealt with Prince.
When I got home I spotted Prince in the driveway looking perfectly pleased with himself. Prince: 1, Bella: 1, I guess we were even now.