The Mummy Bus

My beloved car. My nice, little, sporty, cabriolet, “young, free & single” girl toy (silver with a black roof) will simply have to go. It’s a logistics issue. It may look lovely, drive nicely and make me feel as close to the “wind in your hair, sunglasses on, California beach girl” as I am ever likely to get in Lincolnshire but…

The baby seat and the baby aren’t going to get on with it. Imagine fitting said baby seat and darling baby and then going for a waltz round the countryside with the roof down. The child would either come back frozen cold or sunburnt and with one of those looks on his face that skydivers have when they are in freefall – all teeth, gums and a smile that looks like a cross between the Joker and wobbly jelly.

So it has to go. And in its place? A mummy bus. A derivative of the Chelsea Tractor for those of you who are familiar. Designed solely for the protection of the paranoid parent and their darling offspring. To all intents and purposes a civilian tank. 4 wheel drive – natch. More security devices than the front entrance to Mi6. And so many airbags, if they all went off at once you’d be in danger of floating off. Oh, and zero cool

So bye bye California girl. I look forward to your reincarnation in 25 years time once the beloved children have flown the coop. Til then I will simply dream of my Aston Martin Vantage while I do the school/guitar lesson/swimming run and curse the audacity and stupidity of every other driver (especially the ones with the nice convertibles).

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