Sunday

My Car Hates Me (And Wants Me Dead)

Today was supposed to be glorious. The youngest two stayed home with their dad, which meant I could finally blitz through all the jobs before going back to work tomorrow. A peaceful, productive day for once. Ha. Hilarious.

I got up, showered, and packed the mountain of parcels full of crap I’d shifted on Vinted. Honestly, if I spent as much time cleaning my house as I do photographing second-hand leggings, I’d live in a show home. My daughter decided she had to come with me — apparently watching me post tat is more exciting than staying home with her siblings. Weird child.

We left about 10am. First stop: petrol. £50 in the tank. Fifty. Whole. Pounds. I swear, filling up these days feels like I should be given a complimentary glass of champagne and a keyring just for the trauma. Anyway, I start the car — it coughs like a 90-year-old smoker. Brilliant. Immediate panic: oh God, I’ve put the wrong fuel in. Out I get, double-check… nope, it’s fine. Get back in. Start it up again. Car’s working, but only just — like me after three hours’ sleep and a cold cup of coffee.

Off to the InPost lockers. Just as I’m feeling smug about being an organised adult, the car goes full diva: sluggish, moody, straight into limp mode. Then TWO warning lights ping up like they’re auditioning for Blackpool Illuminations. For crying out loud — I’ve been off work for SEVEN weeks and this heap chooses the day before I return to kick off.

After turning it off and back on again (because that’s the limit of my mechanical knowledge), I admitted defeat and called recovery. They turned up within the hour, took one look and went: “Gearbox service.” Which is mechanic code for: sell your cats organs and remortgage the house. So now it’s booked in at the garage tomorrow. Cost is probably: my left arm, three toes, and the cat’s kidney.

Here’s my genius plan: up at 5:30, launch the kids out of bed, breakfast club drop-off at 7:30, garage by 7:45, then Uber to work. Easy. Except nothing in my life is easy. No doubt the Uber will cancel, I’ll spill coffee down myself, and the kids will use the whole morning to argue about who looked at who the wrong way. I’ll arrive at work stressed, sweaty, and one “Good morning!” away from a breakdown.

The cherry on top? When I explained this carefully crafted plan to the kids, my daughter stared at me with her terrifying child logic and said: “Why don’t you just buy a new car ?” Oh yes, darling. I’ll just pop down to BMW, whip out my “mom of five” credit card, and pick up a shiny new one. Maybe they’ll throw in free breakdown cover and a therapist.

Honestly, at this point I think my car is possessed. If tomorrow doesn’t go smoothly, I’m torching it, claiming insurance, and finally buying that bus pass.

So… anyone else feel like their entire life balance is controlled by a temperamental metal box on wheels? Or is it just me whose car is plotting their early demise?