There is a train conductor with a secret longing to be a Voiceover Guy. This my theory anyway.

The man really has the golden tonsils. I'll be sitting there, seething into my book and loathing humanity; wishing I had the nerve to tell the guy two rows in front that if I can clearly hear the news that Roger Federer has defeated Inferior Player 6-3 6-3 6-0, then his personal radio is turned up too fucking loud. But then I'll hear the familiar BING BONG of the train announcement PA system thingy, and the Conductors voice will come through, soothing like melted chocolate. "Good evening Ladies and Gentleman... this is your conductor speaking."

He'll just be apologising for the Inconvenience of the Short Delay or warning us that the Next Stop Is Glasgow Queen Street, but his tone commands attention. It's deep, rich and reassuring. It fills the carriages; rising and falling like an old ballad. While all the other conductors mumble, he sounds like he puts a lot of thought into it and practices into a hairbrush at night. He even does wee pauses for suspense. "The next stop is... [Ooh tell me, tell me!] Haymarket. I'd like to remind passengers to please... retain your tickets... [Why? Why?] as barrier checks... are now in operation."

It's a lovely mild sort of Scots accent, not one of those incomprehensible ones or over the top like Mr Connery. It belongs in voiceovers, I tell you. I can just imagine him saying, "Hair care products. Three-for-two this week at Boots". Or, "Stay with us now on Channel Five; next up is the insightful new documentary... The Man Who Was Raised By Chickens".

The conductor is a handsome bloke, 40-something; he'd look so dignified in a small booth with a microphone above him. The other day he sauntered through our carriage to inspect the tickets. This is where he really showcases his range. He managed to say something different to every single passenger as they half-heartedly waved their passes at him. Thank you. Much obliged. Thanks. Perfect. Merci. Ta. Beautiful. That's smashing. I never knew there were so many ways to acknowledge a valid ticket.

Before he got to me, he had to announce the Next Stop. I don't understand how the system works, to be honest. Most trains have an automated voice that blasts through so abruptly that it feels like your sternum will shatter. But sometimes the conductors have to do it manually. Or maybe this guy chooses to do it that way.

I watched him unlock the little hatch where the equipment resides. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, rolled his shoulders twice and cracked his knuckles, as if he was about to walk on stage to play King Lear. Finally he cleared his throat and picked up the handset, "Ladies and Gentleman... [dramatic pause!] The next stop... is Edinburgh Waverley."

I was dying to tell him how brilliant I thought he was, how his voice warmed my soul and if put to commerical use, it would also make me want to buy stuff. But I figured he'd just think one of the following -

1.  I was being overly polite. Like when people at work thank me for making such great coffees for their meetings, when I KNOW full well I make the most shit coffees in the world, or

2.  I was drunk. Like 75% of passengers on my train line tend to be.

Then again, maybe he had always harboured this secret desire to be a voiceover guy, but didn't have to confidence to really believe he could be a voiceover guy, and took the train conductor job because at least he got to announce the stations. Maybe if someone said to him, "Have you ever thought of doing voiceover work?" his secret desires would feel validated and he'd go and sign up for Voiceover School or whatever you have to do.

Or maybe he was just a dedicated train conductor who happened to have a nice voice. When he came by I silently held out my ticket. I was rewarded with a Marvellous.

I have this hoodie. It is navy blue, old and grotty. I bought it for ten pounds back in 2004. That was the Year of Voluntary Poverty, when Rhiannon and I worked seven days a week and ate Tesco Value beans to fund our travels. I had never worn a hoodie before and at first I marvelled at its mid-season practicality. If I was walking to the bus stop and suddenly attacked by a Spring shower, I could just flip the hood and prevent my hair from exploding into its usual revolting orange cloud.

Later on that year we went to Russia and despite being summer it was bloody chilly so I had to get the hoodie out. While our fellow Contiki tourers were also backpacker types, they'd had the good sense to be accountants or computer programmers in London instead of administrative losers in Edinburgh, so they had posh, stylish jackets. Worse still, Rhiannon had accidentally brought the exact same hoodie as me. We'd meant to get different jackets before the trip but we'd run out of time and dosh. So we felt like right dickheads sitting on that tour bus for three weeks, all matched up.

"Are youse two twins?" an Aussie girl shouted from the back seat, the first of twenty-five people to ask this question.

"NO WE ARE NOT," we said in unison. "It was an unfortunate purchasing coincidence!"

"How thick are these people?" Rhiannon hissed, "Twins, just because we have the same stupid jacket."

"Idiots."

I think Rhiannon ceremoniously burned her hoodie after that trip, but since I am lazy and not half as stylish I clung on to mine. And on and on. It makes me look like a bum, about to shuffle off to place a bet on some greyhounds. But my commute involves so much walking and this is Scotland, there's hair-wrecking downpour lurking round every corner.

What sucks is Gareth has a hoodie too, and seems surgically attached to it. He was wearing one the fateful day we met, and he would have worn it down the aisle had it not been so hot in Vegas. But as previously reported, the good Doctor has nae hair, so a hoodie is handy when there's a sudden chill in the air.

He recently replaced a hood he'd had for about twenty years, and what do you know, it's navy fucking blue. If we go for a walk we have to argue over who gets to wear theirs, because I was scarred by Russia and refuse to walk around all Mrs and Mrs Hoodie. What's next, matching white trainers and bum bags? So it's a fierce battle between the Baldy Head and the Risk-Of -Frizz Ginger. I fantasise that one day we'll just wake up and simultaneously declare, "Let's stop dressing like middle aged students and go out and buy some proper jackets!". But it never happens.

Recently I was behooded and half-asleep on the train, heading home from work. A young lad got on, juggling an armful of books, a guitar, and a huge bunch of flowers. He was dressed in black and smiling, a sharp contrast to us dour corporate slaves. He reminded me of one of those guys at high school that chicks would obsess over, assuming he was Deep and Mysterious because he had long hair and a faraway expression.

He arranged his goods on the luggage rack then plopped down beside me. As the train pulled away he started scrawling funny squiggles on a piece of paper.

"I'm learning Arabic," he said after a few minutes, catching me looking.

I sat up straight, shocked. This was the first time a stranger had spoken to me on the train. Normally it's just grim silence, everyone absorbed in their iPods and Dan Browns.

"Nice!" I croaked.

"I'm really loving it." His voice was soft and dreamy, "It looks like art, don't you think?"

"Sure!"

I decided to have a stab at conversation, since this was such a rare event. "You know, I remember when I did Japanese, I always liked drawing the squiggles more than I did learning how to say anything."

"Japanese! That is so cool!"

We started chatting about the two languages and it was such a hoot because he was so earnest and completely uncynical, his lust for life not yet destroyed by working in a call centre.

"I have this big bag of henna at home," he said suddenly, "Someday I'm going to invite round a whole bunch of naked girls and paint poems all over them in Arabic. Yeah. Love poems!"

"Oh... brilliant! This is my stop."

"It's mine too. That's cool."

As the doors opened he gestured for me to go first and said the magic words, "So you're a student too, then?"

A student! A student! Have you ever heard anything sweeter, a decade after you'd last set foot in a place of learning?

We parted company and I walked home in the warm glow of the mildly flattered. It was a good ten minutes before I figured why he'd thought I was a student. It wasn't my youthful complexion or quality banter. It was because I was dressed like a slob. That bloody hoodie!

"You wouldn't believe what happened to me and my hoodie today," I told Gareth later. "It's going in the bin."

"No!" Gareth yelped, "You can't put a hoodie in the bin! Wait til you hear what happened to me and my hoodie today!"

He had spent the day canoeing down the River Spey today with two pals. They got caught in a crazy current and hit a huge log. The canoe capsized. The other two were flung out but Gareth got trapped underneath! He almost died! Well, he was certainly under there long enough to start thinking of the tragic headline, Fife Lad Drooned In The Spey. Luckily his mate swooped in ... and hauled him out by his hoodie.

"You see, hoodies are magic," he declared, "They keep you looking youthful AND they save your life."

"Right on."

"I am never taking this off again!"

The Edinburgh Festivals are quite a different experience now that I'm not living in the middle of Edinburgh. It used to be a short bus ride or walk home after an evening show. But these days if we miss the last train, it's an epic journey on the 1AM bus.

It's an eclectic mix of screeching hens, football revellers and middle-aged Girls Night Out-ers, with the odd posh couple hiding beneath the wife's pashmina as they wonder whose idea it was to leave the car at home.

The air is thick with beer breath and nobody seems to know each other, but drunkeness unites. It's all belching, farts and bellowed banter.

LADY 1:  Can you stop the bus please, driver! This lady is gonnae be sick!

LADY 2:  Dinnae worry, hen! I'll be sick in ma handbag.

LADY 1:  Dinnae worry, driver! She's gonnae be sick in her handbag!

LADY 2:  [BLUUURRK]

LADY 1:  Lucky you had that handbag because I wouldnae be cleaning up your sick. I'll clean up piss, but I hate cleaning up sick.

BLOKE:  Oh that's good coz I'm totally burstin'.

When we finally got off the bus we had to jump right over the stairs and onto the footpath, because some lady had spewed all over them.

There were three girls on the train trying to establish who among them had the shittiest job. Was it the sales assistant, the coffee shop girl or the Pizza Hut chick? While they were all equally mistreated by customers and The Management, Pizza Hut Chick won because she had to come home stinking of cheese and tomato.

GIRL #1:  Anyway. Enough about work. Who's coming to your 18th party?

GIRL #2:  Dunno yet.

GIRL #3:  Are you inviting Kelly?

G2:  No WAY. She's a bitch. She said I didn't get into St Andrews [University] because I wasn't middle class!

G1:  That cow!

G3:  Middle class? What you mean by that?

G2:  You know, middle class.

G3:  No I don't know.

G2:  Well you know, everyone has a class. There's upper class, and below that is middle class, and below that is... what do you call the other one?

G1:  Working class.

G3:  Oh right. So how do you know which one you are?

G2:  It depends on what your dad does. If he's something like a labourer or taxi driver then you're working class.

G3:  Well. Then I'm working class.

G1:  Me too! And proud of it!

G3:  What are you if your Dad's a doctor?

G1:  Depends what sort of doctor. There's different classes of medical professional.

G2:  Yeah, like a brain surgeon would be upper class but a GP would be sorta... middle-upper.

On 19 June we were on the bus for a good seven hours, making our way from Novgorod to Moscow. When I wasn't scoffing Finnish chocolate I was pressed up against the window trying to take photos of fast-moving objects. It was an unforgettable journey after four days in the relative glamour and beauty of St Petersburg. There were miles of run-down houses, crumbling roadside stalls selling beachtowels and stuffed toys, endless silvery lakes, a truck stop zoo complete with drugged hyenas, and the ever-present old ladies in headscarves glaring at our obnoxious white tour bus.

Clicky here to check out the snaps.

Public transport is a cruel and evil form of mobile hell, in which one is forced to be surrounded by people at the very time of day when one least wants to be surrounded by people.

Yesterday the girl with the Justin Timberlake ringtone was in the midst of a lover's quarrel with someone perhaps attempting contact whilst buried under an avalanche, such was the quality of the phone's reception:

"Nooo. Wha? ... I'm not arguing... Wha? No fuck youuu... Wha? ... Wha? ... I'm on the bus... Wha? ... the BUS!"

The guy beside me was searching for his ears beneath the long greasy ropes of his hair. Once found, he jammed his earphones in and cranked up the volume to the maximum.

My blood began to simmer. When listening to music in public, it's not difficult to check the volume before you put your earphones in to see if it's audible to those around you. If so, you can decrease the volume accordingly. Or if you're a jerky jerkface, you can just turn it up even louder to ensure the whole bus enjoys your bellowing Radio One DJ or obscure Scandinavian metal band.

"Wha? I'll see you at home... HOOOME. Wha? Go to hell."

I stood up and smacked the STOP bell. To hell with this bewheeled torture chamber! I'd paid £33 a month for unlimited travel on Lothian Buses. If this bus was so determined to shit me, I would simply get on a different one!

After ten minutes sulking in the afternoon drizzle, another bus came by. I was greeted by the unmistakable stench of the Great Unwashed. But I was willing to tolerate that for a few moments of silence. I sat back and noticed how this particular route was always full of elderly men with huge ears, curved and creviced like ashtrays.

I was dozing off when a young couple came clattering up the aisle, they couldn't have been more than 14. They plonked down across from me and dropped their shopping bags. He carefully pushed back the hood of her regulation fur-trimmed parka and they commenced a furious snog session.

When you're the one in the midst of a kiss, it sounds like heaven. Sweet or soft or sexy; the memory of it can keep you floating for days. But when you're not involved, a kiss is one of the most irritating noises in the world. The sound of someone else's smacking lips and clonking teeth makes the stomach scream in protest. I pulled my beanie down harder over my ears as he excavated traces of Irn-Bru and chip crumbs from her gums.

After ten minutes they stopped, and the boy spoke in nasal tones.

"Scratch my back would ya babe?"
"Wha?"
"I'm itchy. Below my shoulder. Lower. Aww yeah, that's it."
"Yeah?"
"Bit more to the left. Aww yeah. You're the best babe."

The slurping resumed with renewed vigour for a good four stops, until the girl's mobile rang. You could almost hear their merged saliva stretch out and snap like mozzarella on a pizza as they reluctantly parted lips.

"Hello? Who?... Eh? ... What you want? ... I'm on the bus... THE BUS... Noo, I'm on my own... I'm on my ooown.... Fine."

Beep.

Slurp slurp.

Breathless recap.

"So that was Douglas. Me phone rang and I said like Hello? and he's like It's Douglas and I'm like Who? and he says Douglas and I'm like Eh? What you want? and he's like Where are you? and I'm like I'm on the bus and he's like Where? THE BUS I said and he's like, Is Kyle with you? and I'm like Noo, I'm on my own and he's like, Suuuure, and I'm like, I'm on my ooown, and he's like, I'm going, so I'm like, Fine."

Slurp slurp slurp.

My fingers itched to hit the STOP button again, but all immediate exits were blocked by old geezers with satellite dish ears. I scratched at the vinyl seat and tried to ignore the din. Instead I focused on the man in front, admiring the way he'd artfully arranged his remaining hairs in a spiral around his spotty red scalp.

Slurp slurp.

I was brooding over the realisation that I'd have been home twenty minutes ago if I'd stayed on the first bus, when the bell rang. The scrawny Casanova dragged his girl down the aisle.

"Let's go babe. I'm bursting for a piss."

MOTHERSHIP:  Shauna. Are you sitting down? I have some terrible news.

SHAUNA:  Oh god. What happened?

M:  I've had a car accident.

S:  Oh my god!

M:  I slammed into a semi-trailer.

S:  Oh my god! Are you in hospital?

M:  No, I'm fine! I was only doing 15 km/h!

S:  Bloody hell, woman!

Our Scottish jaunt was largely funded by the sale of Manuel, our darling maroon-with-pink-stripe Festiva hatch. The Mothership bought him with the understanding that she would look after him and keep him clean. Writing him off just two months later was not part of the deal.

The accident happened on a tiny country road, where The Mothership crept out from a Give Way and didn't see the semi barrelling by. Luckily she is a infuriatingly cautious driver, otherwise she could have been a goner. She finally sent me the photos yesterday, and from the filthy state of the vehicle, I'm not convinced it was an accident. I think Manuel was so depressed by such blatant neglect that he wanted to end it all.

My habit of naming inaminate objects really must stop, because the pain of losing them is so great. Our time with Manuel was brief and bittersweet. It was devastating to see his crumpled, mud-streaked corpse.

Manuel memories:

- The competition to name him, which sparked an unprecedented 70 comments

- The near clash with a kangaroo

- The day I roasted a chicken under his hood

The highlight was the final time I drove him. It was from Canberra to Goulburn on the Friday night before we left. It was on the verge of a thunderstorm with The Dirty Three brooding on the stereo. Lightning scribbled across the sky, showing random bursts of sheep and gum trees out of the darkness. The road was empty so I drove too fast and tried to stuff all that space and quiet into my memory.

Cross-posted to Lost In Transit

There were two grumpy Aussie guys sitting behind me on the bus yesterday, the new arrival and the weary veteran.

"What's the deal with the weather over here mate?"

"It's shit. And soon it will be dark. Shit and dark."

"What does everyone do then? Watch telly? Go down the pub?"

"What else can you do when it's shit and dark?"

"Aww man. I'm gunna miss the summer. I was only thinking today I haven't had decent bit of fruit since I got here."

"That's because they can't grow anything here because it's shit and dark."

"Yeah. We are lucky to be from Australia."

"Yeah. Wish I could get my visa extended, but."

"Do you know what I love," she says to him dreamily, their limbs all tangled on the back seat of the bus, "I love that feeling when you fill a whole notebook with stories or shopping lists, and then you flick through the pages over and over... you can hear the ink crackling...

"So what do you love?"

"Hmmm." He thinks for a long while. "You know when you get a big spot on your face, right. All day you're just busting to pop it but you know it's not the right time. So you wait and wait and let it get to that boiling point. Then you finally squeeze and that's what I love, that little rush you get when it just whooshes out so perfectly and neatly."

"You fucking make me sick!" she sqwarks. She removes her leg from over his leg and his arm from under her arm. She picks up the ridiculous little handbag and scrunches over beside the window.

It's twenty minutes to half an hour to work on the bus each morning, depending on the Moron to Bus Stop ratio. There's always someone who has to argue with the driver, lose their bus pass, not have the right change, or generally mess with the efficiency of Lothian Buses.

But I look forward to the journey. It's a delicious chunk of time to just sit up the top and daydream, to attempt to put on lipstick, peer into peoples backyards, snigger at bad hairstyles, doze briefly, or chase fallen lipstick down the aisle.

There's a lot of elderly people on the route. They're loud and funny and always bitching about the weather. The other day some old biddie got on, flashed her OAP card then sat down. The bus driver called her back and reminded her that she had to pay 40p as it's only free after 9.30 AM.

"Ooh, I clean forgot!" she blushed.

"Yoooo stupid old fart," muttered a sweet little dame in front of me, who looked at least ten years her senior, "Everyone knows that."

Then she gave her the finger.

Another day an old guy went sprawling when a particularly mental driver really hammered on the brakes at his stop. He giggled and brushed off his coat, and we all smiled back at him, knowing it just as easily could have been one of us. Except for one cranky wrinkly who snarled, "Look, sonny. Maybe you're just too old to ride the bus now!"

If the oldies aren't entertaining me, there are plenty of intruiging conversations to drop in on. There's politics...

"You know they keep saying on the news how disappointing the turnout was for the Scottish elections, I can tell ya what the real reason for that is. It's because it's just so bloody borin'. Why don't they make it worth our while? They should put it on the telly and make the politicians sing or dance or do magic, and then we ring up and vote for our favourite. We wouldn't have to go out in the rain or anything."

... and technology...

"I don't know how I'd get through the working day without Solitaire."

"Don't you think it's a bit borin' and lonely? You can only play it on your own."

"But that's the idea!"

"Personally I think Hearts is more excitin'."

"You can only play that on your own too!"

"Aye, but Solitaire just seems more solitary to me. I think it's got something to do with the name."

One of the best things about Canberra is the late-night drive home from Monkey and Mattay's house. It's twenty minutes of quiet road, winking stars and blaring stereo. I drive too fast and sing loudly and badly. When I get back into town, I detour up random streets, just to squeeze in a few more numbers.

Whenever I get the coveted M&M invite I take great care to select some rockin' CDs for drive home. On the weekend it was Bee Gees One Night Only (still in mourning) and some iTunes mixes: the original Rockin' Car Songs, Rhi Rocks Out Volume II and Xmas Rockin' Goodness.

The other night I was fumbling with the controls of our six stacker and searching for the best songs to belt out. The mood called for something robust. Layer upon layer of delicious harmonies, the stuff of sing-songs round a campfire. Don't you just love harmonies? They are perfect for those not blessed with talent. You can start with the high bit then abruptly drop down when your shithouse chords start to die. Or you can start low in the verse then soar for the chorus. Or you can chop and change from one word to the next. Whatever you choose, you can always blend in somewhere over the din of the engine and think to yourself, "DAMN! I coulda been a Supreme!"

During And Your Bird Can Sing, I decided I would ask WNP visitors to tell me their favourite harmony-drenched tunes then use this precious information to create the ultimate mix CD and call it Let's Go 2003 -- Harmonic Highway Hitz! or something equally inane.

But my plans were interrupted when an obnoxious white BMW swooped up to overtake me. I had just finished swearing and pounding the steering wheel when a kangaroo appeared out of the dark and streaked across the road in front of them.

BANG!

It was rather a spectacular sight. The 'roo shot up into the air, you could almost see the moment when its whole body shattered. The head snapped back, legs and tail jerking, then the whole thing went limp and lifeless like someone had tossed some bagpipes across the highway. There was a little puff of dust when it sailed over the railing and hit the scrub.

The BMW barely flinched, but I slowed down and felt so bad for the poor bugger.

Anyway, be sure to tell me your favourite songs of harmonised goodness.

Dead 'roo haiku:

broken kangaroo
shall no longer hop hop hop
in the morning dew

There'd been a little rattle in Manuel for a week or so now. Nothing too bad we thought, but we booked it in for a service today. But last night on my way to singing class, I had a little adventure.

Somewhere around Parliament House, the rattle turned to a clunk. Then when I stopped at the lights in Woden, Manuel stalled and wouldn't budge. And of course I happened to be on a hill with half a dozen cars behind me. I turned the engine over and Manuel gave a halfhearted urrgh urrgh urrgh before dying again.

Up until that point I had completely adored Manuel, so compact and reliable compared with the piece of shit cars I've had before. But as soon as he misbehaved, I became filled with panic and rage. The light was going to be green in a second. I couldn't bear the thought of being stranded. Like one of those stranded losers that break down at a major intersection and pace round with a mobile phone while every passing vehicle beeps in disgust.

And I'm pretty crap on hills as it is. I've only been driving a stick for a few months. I have no idea what I am doing. So in the end my tactic was to press all the pedals in a random sequence like a deranged organist, simultaneously screaming, "COME ON YOU LITTLE RED FUCKER!"

Manuel obediently limped around the corner. I thought I was going to make it to my teacher's house but then the revolting burning smell started. I pulled over and called the NRMA dude.

Then I called my sister, and we ranted and raged about our Piece Of Shit car that we only bought six months ago and how dare it do this to us!

Then I called Jenny and told her I wouldn't be able to make it to singing class. The trio would be a duo tonight. But as it turned out, Inge hadn't made it either due to "illness". This made our teacher very suspicious of my "breakdown". He asked Jenny would she like to do the class solo. Jenny thought for three seconds and said, "Naaah."

She left him huffing and harrumphing at his piano, apparently believing that the three of us had concocted this elaborate scheme to wriggle out of class. Then she came to keep me company while I waited for the NRMA.

He didn't take long. And he was rather cute. I hoped that nothing too major was wrong with the car, but at the same time I hoped there was something majorly wrong with it, so I wouldn't look like an idiot in the presence of such cuteness.

No such luck.

I popped the bonnet and he peered under. "Umm. Where's your radiator cap?"

"What?"

"You don't have a cap on your radiator."

"Holy shit."

Then I remembered. Rhi had been checking the oil and water about two weeks ago. Manuel is her first car, so she's never had to do that before. She kept asking me, "Am I doing this right?" and I was saying, "Yep, yep" without really looking. When she screwed the radiator cap back on, I'd thought to myself that I usually had to press down harder for it to go on. But I thought maybe she didn't need to exert as much energy as I, being of superior strength and fitness.

Now I realised we'd been driving around for up to two weeks without a radiator cap, letting things bubble and boil to the point of disaster. During this time I'd complained to Rhi that the car "smelled funny". She said it was the air conditioning. I said, "Air conditioning doesn't smell like dirt and burny things." But did I look into it further? Nooo.

"So there's your problem," NRMA dude said with a little grin.

"Right."

"Umm. Why are there chicken feathers under your hood?" Jenny asked.

I peered closer and frowned. "Maybe we ran over a chicken somewhere along the line."

"Empty radiator combined with BBQing chicken would explain the burning smell you mentioned," said NRMA dude.

It was all rather humiliating.

He got a bottle of water and topped up the radiator. While Manuel gulped and sputtered in relief, I decided I had to try and redeem myself.

"I know what you're thinking, that I am a stupid woman driver who can't do something as basic as keep her radiator cap on, but you have to know it wasn't my fault!"

"Is that right?"

"I own this car with my sister, see. She's never had a car before and the other day she was checking the oil and water and she was putting the cap back on and she asked me was it on properly and I said yep, yep but it looks like she didn't put it on properly at all! Can you believe her? I mean how hard is to --"

"And you were supervising?"

"Well, yes."

"So why didn't you check?"

"Because we were on our way out to lunch and I was hungry!"

"I really don't think it's fair to blame your sister."

"Bah!"

He topped up the radiator then we putted up to Philip to look for a cap. It's a suburb choked with car yards and petrol stations, but everything was either closed or cap-less. We were parked right next to a Ford dealership. There were dozens of Fords with Ford-y radiator caps just ripe to fit onto my own little Ford, but no Ford salesman around to help us.

"It's a pity we can't break in and steal one," mused the NRMA dude.

"Well why don't you?" I coaxed. "You have the tools!"

But no. In the end the only option was to limp back home with Jenny following me in case I broke down again.

"You'll probably have to stop three or four times when the temperature gauge goes up, then fill 'er up again and wait ten minutes before you go home," NRMA dude explained. "Or if it dies, just call a tow truck."

"Bloody hell!"

"Just be thankful you didn't blow a head gasket!"

"Yes sir," I said sheepishly.

It was the longest 15 minutes of my life, putting along and hoping the car wouldn't explode. Miraculously, the gauge didn't move at all. Jenny drove in front of me and the NRMA guy followed behind. He'd said he had to go elsewhere, but ended up tailing us. Perhaps he didn't trust my driving.

Finally we were back in Braddon and I thanked the NRMA dude for his help.

"Why is it whenever I call the NRMA it's always something stupid?" I pondered. "On your TV ads it's always high drama, like crumpled cars or people with their limbs on fire."

"Heh," said the NRMA dude.

"And your slogan, Call N-R-M-A For H-E-L-P. I think it should be Call N-R-M-A, You D-O-R-K."

"Heh," he said again.

And off he went. Jenny came bolting over from her car. "Did you see that? He was in behind you and I was in front of you! I was driving along thinking, 'Woohoo! Shauna's in a cavalcade!"

"I know! A cavalcade! I felt like JFK or something."

There has been progress in the Learning To Drive A Stick caper. My sister has been such a patient teacher, putting up with me shrieking "What gear?! What gear!?" in the exact same ear-piercing pitch that Tweety Bird says "I did! I did taw a puddytat!"

She's also survived two brushes with death in which I failed to give way (too busy enquiring about the gear I was in) and only slightly rolls her eyes when I stop at the lights, hand poised over the handbrake, asking in panicky tones, "Is this a hill? Is this a hill?", even when the road is perfectly flat.

Rhi's in Queensland this week on a business trip, leaving me to fend for myself. I fully planned to stay housebound and walk anywhere I needed to go, but soon I was eating nothing but Vegemite and some suspect-looking bread. It was time to venture out in Manuel all on my own.

I've driven to work, to the supermarket, to the movies, out to Fyshwick (to order my new puter, NOT to buy porn. I know what you're thinking, Canberra kids) only stalling twice, only crunching the gears three times in total. Not too shabby, I thought. Then today it all came undone.

I went out to buy supplies for a gathering tonight, and the Saturday morning traffic was a little crazy. But I made it home in one piece. I parked Manuel and popped open the hatch, got out of the car and promptly slammed the door shut, locking the keys inside.

My heart turned to shit. We only have two sets of keys, and the other is in Cairns right now. I examined the hatch and tried to remove the cover thingy. It wouldn't budge. I wondered if I could somehow dive over the cover thingy without getting my fat arse lodged in the small gap between the back seat and the ceiling. We've only had Manuel for a month, and I didn't want to have to explain a hacked-up hatch to my sister.

So I decided to be more resourceful. All I had to do was find something long enough to reach from the back of the car to one of the doors, then I could somehow unlock the door. There were no long objects inside the car, so in the end I took off one of the windscreen wiper blades, launched myself into the back of the car, grunting and swearing, poking the wiper around until I finally flipped up the lock.

"Woohoo!" I yelled.

"Well hello there!" said my neighbour, who until now has not said boo to me, but chose the moment when I was wedged in the back of my car with my arse in the air to happen along and introduce himself.

If anyone is any good at reattaching wiper blades, please let me know.

Thank you, all you wacky people, for your interesting suggestions for new car names. After lengthy deliberation, we have christened our little red beast.

THE WINNER: Manuel
(suggested by Simon)

RUNNER UP: Florence
(suggested by JD)

NOT EVEN CLOSE: Purplish Viral Infection, Lady Margaret Deathstrike, Great Aunt Spagnum, Pedro the Panty Merchant.

HONORABLE MENTION FOR MOST VIGOROUS CAMPAIGNING: Screaming Silence of Your Impending Doom
(repeatedly suggested by Mattay)

The winning name just clicked right away. We initally thought that the car was female, but now it's just going to be a girly kind of boy. We also like the Fawlty Towers reference, it recalls that lovely image of Basil Fawlty thrashing his broken-down Mini with a tree branch. I've felt like taking a branch to the car myself lately, with my frustration at learning how to drive the bloody thing. But it's not the cars fault I am lousy with a manual.

My experience with the stick is pretty pathetic. I got my learner's permit the day I turned 16 way back in 1993, but nobody bothered teaching me to drive. I had one disasterous lesson with the Mothership on our farm. She kept pressing her foot down on the Phantom Brake in the passenger seat, nagging and snapping, You're in the wrong gear, you're going too fast, you're going to hit that sheep, etc. I didn't come anywhere near the bloody sheep, though the fence was rather close.

Next thing it was February 1996 and I was off to uni and needing a car to get around. But I had not had one single driving lesson since the sheep incident. So the Mothership finally conceded that it was time for me to learn. I'd been on my Learners for over two years, and now I had to learn to drive in two weeks.

The man assigned to the task was Bob from the Totally R.A.D. Driving School. It was like, totally rad! I totally forget what the R.A.D. stood for, but Bob was a rad guy. He had made a little Lego model of a clutch, which he liked to whip out every time you stalled, which in my case was quite often.

"Now this is the clutch, Shauna," he say in the hushed, awed tones that one usually reserves for some magical mystical occurence. "Now this is a bazillion-carat diamond that I dug out of my backyard with a teaspoon, Shauna."

He would turn the little Lego crank and the little Lego gears would spin and he'd explained how it worked, and how my mission was to get to know the clutch. I would nod blankly and smile. Over the next ten days he'd show me that Lego clutch a further fifty times, plus show me the wonders of reverse parallel parking, clutch control and using your mirrors. I stalled and swore, went too fast or too slow, but he was patient and spoke to me in soothing tones.

"Now, go back a gear, easyyyy, easy now! Turn the corner, Shauna. Turn the corner, Shauna. Hey that rhymes! Hehehe."

The big day of the test rolled up and of course my chronic nervousness kicked in. I had thrown up my breakfast and all the mantras Bob had taught me seem to have been purged too. I sat in Bob's Totally RAD Festiva as the RTA dude drummed his fingers on his clipboard, waiting for me to start. But my mind had gone completely blank.

When you know how to drive, starting a car is something you do without thinking. But for me, with about 5 hours of driving experience and being generally loopy and uncoordinated by nature, it was hopeless. I turned the ignition on, got into reverse, and tried to take off. No dice. I did this three times and was about to burst into tears when the guy coughed politely and said, "Have a think about what you haven't done yet." I looked around for a good minute or two before finally realising the fucking handbrake was still on.

"Ha! Haaaaa hahaaa," I whimpered as I took off the handbrake and proceeded to stall twice more.

I had failed the test utterly and miserably before I'd even left the freaking RTA car park, but the bastard still made me do the rest of it. I went over the speed limit twice, I stalled again and my reverse parallel park was a dog's breakfast. I waited til I'd given Bob his Totally RAD car keys back before running into the loos and sobbing.

Hehe. I ended up going for my licence again the day before I left for uni. In that time I'd accquired The Bird, who was an automatic. I passed just fine, despite turning up the wrong street since I'd been to busy being nervous to listen to instructions properly.

About two months later when my sister turned 16, Mum started teaching her to drive right away. Grrr. She says not teaching me to drive is a sad chapter in her mothering history, but at least she'd learned from her mistakes and now knew how to get things right when Rhi got her licence. What am I, the experiment child?

We caught a bus to Goulburn at 6am last Saturday. The bus had come from Adelaide and was on its way to Sydney, so it was full of sleepy backpackers. I had a window seat but the fog was so thick that there wasn't much to look at outside. Instead we listened to the crazy guy three rows behind us.

He'd boarded the bus with us at Canberra. He had spiky brown mullet and a slightly manic grin. He lumbered up the aisle and found his seat.

"G'day!" He stuck out his hand to the guy beside him. There was a strained English-accented "Hello" in response. We hadn't even made it down Northbourne Avenue before the crazy guy launched into his life stories.

"So, September 11, mate. Can you remember where you were when it happened?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "I was in Sydney at the shelter, and there was this crazy guy, you know how there's always a crazy guy. He's standing out the front there looking crazy, he's got an eye patch and everything. I go to walk past and he grabs me and he's slobbering and slurring, The world is gunna end mate, two planes just flew into the towers at New York, there's people jumping out and the worlds gone mad! Whatever, mate, I says. No it's true, I saw it on the telly! Go and look!

"I was gunna go look at the telly just to humour him, but they'd already locked the telly away for the night, they lock it away so noone flogs it during the night. Anyway, he kept going on and on about it, he had this little transistor radio and he was trying to find a station, and he was ranting about planes and burning bodies and shit.

"Anyway, he was crazy. You can never trust a bloke with an eye patch. We were gunna call the doctor and have him hauled off to the hospital. But we went to McDonalds instead. I was standing in the queue goin' Haw haw, planes flying into buildings, what a dickhead, when this huge burly guy pokes me in the back and says, Oi, it's not funny, roight? I said Ahh, fuck off!

"But then I notice they've got the telly on and they're showing that footage over and over again. Jeeeesus chroist, it's for real! I said. The big fella looked like he was fully gunna hit me, so I said Sorry mate, I had no bloody idea!"

I rolled my jacket into a ball and leaned it against the window, snuggled in and tried to sleep. But the windows were cold and slick, my jacket kept sliding down the glass and my head went with it, landing on the window frame with a thunk.

"The other day I was reading a study in Readers Digest about men and the pressures we are under today. Did you realise the pressure we're under, as men? So many boys in high schools are toppin' themselves coz they can't handle all the pressures and the expectations. It's okay for girls, you see, noone really cares what they do with their lives. They are not judged like us men are. If a boy wanted to help his mum bake a cake, he just can't, mate. Because of society. The pressure of society. You can't be a real man and bake a fucking cake."

The bus was sleepy and quiet except for the crazy guy's relentless rambling. Sunlight was starting to seep through the fog. Along the side of the road I could see spidewebs in the trees. That's something you never notice during the day. But in the morning the light is soft and you see thousands of silvery webs, stretched out between the branches. Across the aisle, an impossibly tall guy reading a German translation of John Grisham book, tried to stretch his legs out between the seats.

"Pythagoras, mate. Do you know about Pythagoras? He's the one that did the triangles. Do you know how he did the triangles? He was looking up at the sky one night, I think it was around 6000 B.C. He was looking up at the stars and he connected the dots in his head to make the triangles. Pretty amazing, yeah?"

I nodded off for a good twenty minutes. Soon we were near Goulburn so my sister nudged me awake. The crazy guy was still on Pythagoras.

"So after the triangles, he later went on to make the Pyramids."

"Wasn't Pythagoras a Greek?" asked his bewlidered companion.

"Yeah mate, but he went over to Egypt. With his knowledge of triangles. He helped the Egyptians build their Pyramids."

He was still talking when the bus finally lurched into the service station. We looked up at the Big Merino and wondered if Pythagoras had a hand in that too.

It was easy to name my first car. It was a Nissan Bluebird, and thanks to my reckless driving, it really flew, man. So it was THE BIRD!

Then it was easy to name the second car Golden Boy, coz he was gold and there's nothing like a Seinfeld reference.

But this new one has us stumped. Perhaps I can't think of a name because I haven't formed an attachment to the car yet (possibly because I can't drive the bloody thing. It's manual and I can't drive a manual for shit, I am having to learn rather quickly).

Anyway, I've decided to hold a Name That Car Contest. I'm not sure what the prize will be. Perhaps the prize will be Golden Boy himself. Of course, you'll have to come here to get him, and give me $3000 or so.

Okay, I will think of a better prize. But here is the nameless one, a 1998 Ford Festiva.

The judges (ie. my very fickle sister's) decision will be final. Enter as many times as you like! Don't be shy!

There are few things worse than that My Car's In The Garage Today And I Have To Sit Around At Work Waiting To See What's Wrong And How Bloody Much It's Gonna Cost Me feeling.

When the gurgling from Golden Boy's rear got worse over the weekend, I booked him in yet again. I was assured I'd be called once they knew what was happened. When I'd heard nothing by 4.30, I called up. I got the Smug Bitch in reception, the one who always gives me a patronising stare every time I walk in.

"Oh, you're the one with the brown Magna?"

"It's not brown. It's GOLD."

"Yeah. Anyway, we can't hear any noise."

"What?"

"We've had two different mechanics look at it, and they can't hear any noise. Not a peep. Therefore you have totally wasted our time and you are a stupid fuckwit."

That last bit was not her exact words, but the sentiment was there.

"I'm telling you, there's a noise. I always think I'm being chased by motorbikes, but no, it's the car!"

"Well why don't you come up and we'll take you for a drive and we'll see if we hear anything, okay?"

It's amazing how many patronising tones you can pack into that one word. Oh-kaaaay?

"Fine."

On the way to the garage I ranted and raved about those bastards and how there was a noise and I Know My Car Goddammit, and I would show THEM. That's bluster of Cranky Shauny talking. But at the same time Wimpy Shauny is gnawing away in my brain, spineless, passive. Wimpy Shauny's policy is: you are to blame for everything and you have somehow brought this whole mess on yourself due to your general incompetence.

When these Shauny's combine you get someone who thinks she is wrong but damn if she's right for once, she'll stomp all over you whooping for joy.

Then there's Vicious Shauny, who is willing to lie her arse off in order to avoid looking stupid and/or taking the blame for any situation. If I'd done something stupid to the car, I had to think of some reason why it was in no way my fault. I came up with a few excuses on the fly:

1. Oh! That pesky sister of mine drives my car allll the time and she really drives like a maniac, you know.

2. This one time, the car was kidnapped by a pack of smelly teenagers, they drove it around at high speeds for weeks and weeks, and not once did they check the oil and water.

But as soon as I saw that Smug Bitch sneering and the mechanics smirking at me like I was the villiage idiot, I crumbled.

"I'm probably stupid, there's nothing wrong!" said Wimpy Shauny.

"But I'm sure I heard a noise!" said Cranky Shauny.

"We'll see," said the Smug Bitch.

The big boss mechanic drove and I sat in the passenger seat. And wouldn't you know it. Golden Boy purred along the road in silence.

"I don't hear anything."

"Well. Listen harder."

We trundled along the streets and I strained my ears, hoping for a little mutter, a tiny fart, anything to prove that I hadn't made this whole thing up. When I realised that Golden Boy wasn't going to deliver, I launched into apologetic babble and general bullshit.

"I did hear a noise, and so did my sister. I'm probably being paranoid, but I thought I should get it checked out, just in case..."

He gave me a withering look and I felt my temper flare. But Wimpy Shauny was stronger, and Vicious Shauny was determined to shift the blame elsewhere.

I paused and took a deep breath. "My father was a mechanic and he used to tell me never to ignore these things. Unfortunately he's not around anymore to give me car advice..."

I trailled off sadly, as if though my old man had perished in a terrible silo accident, instead of the boring truth that he's just a fuckwit who disowned his kids. I fumbled in my bag for tissues. The mechanic gave a non-committal grunt.

Just as I thought all was lost, that familiar sickly gurgle started again, moments before we arrived back at the garage.

"THERE! There it is!" I crowed.

"Where?"

"If you wound down the bloody window you might hear it."

"Oh. Ohhh. Now I hear it."

It was spluttering like a herd of tractors when we pulled back into the drive. The other mechanics and the Smug Bitch came out to oggle. I got out of the car and slammed the door with a flourish. "Hear it now? Huh? HUH?"

The triumphant triumvirate of Shauny's did a victory lap while the mechanics poked and prodded Golden Boy's ass. They declared that he was okay, there was no leaks or anything major. "Yeah, you've got a vibrating muffler. If you don't want the noise you'll have to get a new one."

Oh it's just such a glorious feeling proving someone right, that they were the fuckwits and you were not. But that all wears off so quickly when you realise the price of victory is another expensive trip to the garage.

Scenes from a garage:

"So we replaced the front brake pads as requested."
"What about the noise and smoke coming from Golden Boy's ass?"
"We did blah blah blah but the real problem is your engine. Worn rings."
"Oh!"
"It will need to be rebuilt in the next six months."
"Hahaha! Haaaaaaaa! HA HA HA! Haaa!"
"What's so funny? The engine will have to be REBUILT! It will cost you a LOT OF MONEY!"
"Because it's just so hilarious when everything in your life goes arse up, all at once. Isn't it? ISN'T IT!?"
"Paying by cash or Visa today?"

This morning I drove my sister to her Interior Design class and the car sounded like a tractor coughing up a lung.

Just fantastic.

Or as I said to a friend last night, "Fuckety fuck." Who says fuckety fuck? I know I heard that somewhere before. It just slipped out. If anyone knows where it came from please let me know.

What else can I do but laugh? The only other alternative is to fall in a screaming heap and I'm not going to do that! The shit keeps piling up around us and I choose to laugh this deranged eeeeeeeeeeeep kind of laugh and my eyes are all wide wild crazy-like and my jaw is permanently clenched. Or maybe that's just last nights margarita binge still haunting me.

Here's Golden Boy™.

As of 2 o'clock this afternoon, I officially own his golden ass. Woohoo!

Due to unforseen circumstances, the thing I had been madly saving for this past six months isn't going to be happening for awhile. So rather than blow it all on something stupid, I decided to be Adult for once and pay off the rest of the golden chariot thereby saving me some interest. Now I'm poor but if all else fails I can sleep in the car! Vroom! Vroooom!

And thanks to all those who voted and made WNP the Best Kept Secret Blog winner. Shhh, don't tell anyone.

Cyclists of the nation's capital, listen here. I really respect your eco-friendliness, your bravery to ride on a winters day, the muscular thighs and pert buttocks for my viewing pleasure. But why can't you make up your bloody mind. Are you going act like a car, or a pedestrian?

There's nothing worse than cruising along a major road in peak hour and you're wobbling all over the left lane. You won't bloody stay near the edge and there's nowhere for me to move because all the other lanes are clogged. I'm terrified of coming too close and shaving off your arm like a meat slicer, but you just keep pedalling along, veering ever closer to my car, when there's a perfectly good bike path a few metres away!

Then in the morning when I am late to work, you chug along the street as slow as molasses, so I put my foot down and overtake you. In return you get all huffy and wave your fists and curse at me!

I almost killed one of you when turning down a street. This time you'd chosen to go Pedestrian and ride along the footpath. You got to the end of it and instead of stopping to look for cars as a normal pedestrian, you decide you are a law unto yourself and sail across the intersection without stopping for me, who was already halfway turned into the street. So I have to slam on my brakes, and suddenly your front tyre is kissing mine.

"Gee, don't you watch what you're doing?" you snarl.

If you want to be given the same courtesy as an ordinary old car or someone on foot, how bout giving me some courtesy? You expect us to treat you the same as any other car on the road, yet if the light goes red you decide, "Hey! I'm going to make a like biped now and ride across the crossing! Then when it's convenient for me I will ride in the middle of the frigging road again!". You're zipping all over the place like an angry mosquito, confusing me and scaring me witless.

So if you expect me to brake at the zebra crossing, pick up your act. Or better still, use one of the twenty bazillion bike paths in this crappy town. You can't have it both ways. Make up your mind before I mow you down in cold blood!

There's this glorious thing called a Dream Run™, where you manage to coast through a bunch of successive traffic lights and it stays green the whole time. None of that stop/start business. It's smooth and fluid and uninterrupted by crimson or crumbly dames in Toyota Crowns.

To get to the gym or work or Macca's (the Sundae Run) we have to cruise through four sets of lights. Inevitably when it's 8.59 on a Monday morning you're going to get all the red lights. Nightmare Run. But sometimes you're lucky, and your chances of success are increased if you start chanting "Dreamrundreamrundreamruuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnn!". Even more effective if your passengers chant too.

It's timing, it's skill on the gas pedal, it's pure luck, it's "amber means speed up", it's "I wonder if there's a red light camera on this intersection?". When it all comes together it's poetry, exhilaration, my sister madly cackling into the night, "AAAAAAAaaaaaaahahahhahah DREAM RUN, BABY!".

And let's not forget the Ultimate Dream Run. That is when you can come off the Big Mother Roundabout at the top of Northbourne Avenue and manage to cruise down to the very end of it (it's a few kilometres, I think) without a single red light. In peak hour. That's right, PEAK HOUR. Gallumphing along on a Sunday afternoon or in the middle of the night doesn't count. Bonus points if it's a Friday. At the start of a long weekend.

If you can do pull off the Ultimate Dream Run, you know you'll have fabulous sex tonight, or win some money, or your boss will be eaten by aliens. It's that good.

Needless to say, I've never made it. But I came ohhhh so close. Heading out to see the folks after a crappy week at work, we were sailing through in a sparkly shower of green. It was a miracle! The last intersection was beckoning.

"Dream ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!" we croaked. "Dream ruuuuuuuuuun!"

The light blinked into amber.

"Bugger!" I screamed.

"Don't worry! There's still time!" cheered Rhiannon. "It's a hoon in that Gemini in front, there's no way they'll stop on an orange!"

But they did stop. Fortunately, my brakes are good. Turns out it was a little old lady in the Gemini. D'oh.

The weekend in pictures:

Sparky, Mum's neighbour.

In the grand tradition of Bounce and Chappi, I now present LE DOG. Spotted at Woolworths.

My car with hazard lights in a ditch on the side of the road at night.

It's ironic in an Alanis Morrisettish way, we were only discussing on Thursday how stupid people are who let their car run out of fuel, I mean how difficult is it to pull into a servo and throw a few dollars in? How could you let that happen?

We drove out of Canberra on Friday afternoon with the gauge smack on half, which is usually more than enough for the two and bit hour trip. Even when I'm driving like a maniac.

We were 20 minutes past the last town before home when I looked down at the gauge. "Ohhhh faaaark."

It was a whisker below empty.

"How the hell did that happen? It was on half!" said my sister.

"I know! I know!"

Then the fuel warning light came on, glared at us briefly, and went away again.

"Okay, it usually comes on waaaay before you run out, so we should make it home. We're not that far from home are we?"

A sign whizzed by - 55 kilometres to go.

"Fifty-bloody-five! Oh crap."

We actually had a mobile this time, but of course out in the wilderness we couldn't get a signal. So we limped along and all was looking good until about 20 kilometres to go the light came back on and this time it stayed on. Youuuuuuuuu idiot, it glowered at me in its nasty orangey way, Youuuu bloody idiot.

We passed the 5 kilometres to go sign, I couldn't believe we'd hobbled along for 50 kilometres with that light sniggering at us. We crossed our fingers, our toes, our eyes, we prayed to random gods, we patted the dashboard and crooned, "C'mon Golden Boy™! You can do it!"

"If we can just make it to the petrol station, and noone will ever have to know!"

All we had to do was go down a little hill, cross the creek bridge and on the other side was my Dad's house. But GB couldn't make it. He heaved a long, pathetic sigh and rolled off the side of the road and stopped dead, poised on the brink of a huge, muddy ditch.

"Faaaaaaaaaaark!"

Rhiannon dialled our Dad. "If we get Dad, he can get us the petrol and Mum will ever have to know."

Dad did not answer. Arrgh! We had to dial The Mother.

"How the bloody hell do you run out of petrol! At your age!"

"Look, can you get us some petrol or not?"

"You should have fuelled up before you left Canberra!"

She went off to look for something to put the fuel in. Knowing the state of her house (think needle/haystack), we decided to try Dad again. He is far more efficient. Luckily he answered that time.

"You... goose!"

"It was half full, I swear!"

He had a proper fuel can so we settled back to wait. Freezing our arses off on the side of the road. Dozens of cars passed us, mostly farmers from the surrounding farms, probably snickering to themselves, "Bloody Canberra drivers!". I should have got out and yelled at them, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I'M ONE OF YOU! NO, REALLY I AM!"

The car really was on a bad angle, hovered over the ditch like that, it looked like we'd had a terrible accident. My sister and I were slumped over the dash, cackling over a funny she'd just said (that Dad was taking so long because he had to do his hair and find a nice pair of slacks before he left the house), when a ute screeched up beside us and a hefty lad tapped on the window.

"HELLO! Oh god! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

I sprang up in my seat. "Ohhhhhhhh hellooooooo there! We just ran out of petrol. We're fine thanks!"

He gasped with surprise, his face draining of colour. "Crroiiiiiiiii-key!"

"It looks worse than it is, I assure you."

"Well. Okay luv."

Moments later Dad finally arrived, fuel can and new girlfriend in tow.

"Bloody hell! Did you have to bring witnesses?"

The girlfriend attempted jolly conversation as Dad whacked the fuel in.

"You. Run out. Petrol. Often?" she asked in her broken English way.

"No. I. Not. Run. Out. Often!" I hissed back, enunciating clearly.

The rest of the weekend was uneventful.

"The back brakes are shot, I mean really, it's a wonder you're not dead. And the rear shocks are completely stuffed. You'll probably get another 10,000 k's from the front brakes if you're lucky. Your two front tyres are kaput, they'll need replacing. If I use reconditioned parts, then add labour, plus 10% for GST, you're looking at about $2,200..."

Just the words I wanted to hear this morning at the garage. Golden Boy™ has been declared "stuffed". Hurrah. After a brief period of hyperventilation, I did what any motor-savvy intelligent independent woman would do – call her father. "Jesus fucking christ Daaaaaad! I don't have two thousand dollars! I wouldn't even get two thousand dollars if I sold the car! I only asked for a service and look what's happened!"

Granted, I hadn't had it serviced since September, and I'd been ignoring that faint crunching sound coming from the rear for a week or two, but I didn't think I could have inflicted that much damage on a car that was in brilliant condition when I bought it just on a year ago. Dad told me that the mechanic must be "a shonky fuckwit" and asked me to put him on. Much grunty blokey talk followed and finally they agreed to just replace the brake pads for now and Dad (a former mechanic) would check out the rest him to ensure I wouldn't be swindled into getting unnecessary work done.

(As a kid I used to ponder the question, what would be the most convenient occupation for ones parents to have? Aside from Completely Rich Bastard, of course. I used to envy kids who's folks ran corner shops, coz they'd get free icecreams and lollies all the time. Or the kid who's dad ran the local pool, coz you could swim for free all the time, you could do bombs and run on the concrete and never get in trouble. Plus free icecreams and lollies.Anyway, people used to say I was lucky to have a teacher mum, coz she could do my homework for me, which of course she never did, she wouldn't even help us if we asked her how to spell something, "I didn't spend $50 on that Macquarie for it to gather dust! Look it up!". I'm now convinced that having a mechanic for a father is really quite nice, he's saved me from being ripped off about a dozen times, he's patched the car up on the sly when I crashed it so mum wouldn't have to find out. Etcetera)

$400 later my car is serviced and the brakes patched up. Still got to fork out for two new tyres. Needless to say my Get The Fuck Outta Dodge fund is non-existent now. And of course all this happens at the same time the electricity, home contents, and three phone bills arrive, not to mention physio fees. Being an adult SUCKS, I tells ya. I long to be 16 again, earning $4.65 an hour at KFC and having no bills and my biggest responsibility was remembering to feed Lenin, my goldfish. I hate maturity! I hate responsibility! I hate being in debt! I hate having a car!

AAAAARGH! AAAAAARGH!

Okay, that was fun.

Meanwhile, it's been pouring rain here for four days straight. Our backyard is looking very third-world-slum-after-a-flood-ish. Harry, illustrated below, is absolutely filthy. His arse is brown from sitting in the mud, his fur is clumped together with chunks of dirt and leaves, he's been moaning and whimpering for twenty-four hours straight. But please, no sympathy for the little bugger. He has a perfectly dry kennel with cosy blankets that I forked out $110 for, and he stubbornly refuses to go near it.

I'm not entirely mean though. I set off to Supabarn just now to buy him some posho dog food, to try and ease the pain that comes from being perpetually soaked. I eventually went with that old chesnut, My Dog - Beef Strips In Sauce With Spring Vegetables, but noticed they're stocking some new varities. And damn dodgy looking ones, which is saying something since it's dog "food" we're talking here.

As endorsed by some cartoon down with a crown.

Bounce! Now with 50% more bounce in every can. What is the "bounce" in Bounce, anyway? Amphetamines? Pig trotters?

Chappi. Hehe. Chappi.

I hope someone else finds those amusing. Please say it's not just me. I might go back to Supabarn and stake out the display and see if anyone else laughs.

Mmmmm, pizza. We wanted it bad last night. Or rather, we were too lazy to cook. Plus it's a good 5 degrees colder in our kitchen than it is outside. I'd got home late and my sister was parked in front of the heater in her pj's with no intent of moving. So we decided on pizza. Not the greasy home-delivered kind, but the yum and cheap Zeffirelli kind. So I called them with our order and then we headed out to pick it up.

"I'll drive and you run in and get it," said my sister, "coz I'm in my PJs"

"Okay."

"Is it legal to drive in slippers?"

"Sure it is."

She double parked while I ran in and grabbed the large San Luca, only $8.80! The place was packed as usual so it took me awhile. Finally I was outside again and Rhi had managed to find a park. She licked her chops and eyed the pizzas as she started the car.

The headlights flickered, once, twice, then nothing.

"Faaaaark!" I announced to passing strangers. "Not again!"

She turned the key again but nothing. Not a single light on the dash, nothing. "That's a brand new battery!" I ranted. "I paid $110 for that!"

"And I'm in my pyjamas!"

"But even if the battery had died it would still try to start, it'd make that dying cow sound like last week, so it can't be that..."

"I've got ugg boots on dammit!"

"I'll have to call the NRMA. Can I use your phone?"

"My phone's at home, don't you have your phone?"

"You know I never take that thing anywhere!"

"Well either do I!"

"There's no public phones around here, we'll have to go look for one"

"YOU have to go look for one! I've got blue PJ pants with clouds on them!"

It was too bloody cold to traipse around looking for a phone, so I took my chances at Ocean Master Seafood. It's a local, dodgy chain - a poor man's McDonalds, except with fish instead of... whatevers. The guy behind the counter beamed as I walked into the empty shop, behold! a customer! He was crestfallen when I said I just wanted to borrow the phone, but was kind enough to let me. The NRMA chick cackled at our predicament and said someone would be there in an hour.

"Look at this as an opportunity for us to have meaningful conversation," said my sister.

"The pizza looks good."

"Yes, yes it does."

The guy arrived at about 8.30. Rhiannon dived into the back seat. The guy poked and prodded around the battery and asked, "Who the hell installed this?"

"Some place that the last NRMA guy I saw recommended to me!"

"Oh. Well, they didn't do it properly!"

"Bah!"

Five minutes later he was gone with a slice and we were on the road again. Incidentally, the pizza was lovely.

Great start to the day! Had to be at work to upload a Very Important Document at 9am but when I jump into the car at 8.50am it wouldn't bloody start! Now here I am waiting for the NRMA. Again. Blah.

Update: The battery was dead. Got a jump start then got a new battery. Also was told by both NRMA Dude and Battery Dude that my car had the WRONG battery in it ("too small for you car") and whoever put it in there was a thumping moron. However car seemed to have managed to function correctly since 1999 when said battery was installed. Perhaps was conspiracy between NRMA and Battery dude so I'd have to spend $102 on new battery.

Update 2: no I did not leave the lights on all night and flatten the battery. I'll have no further emails suggesting so!

The rain stopped briefly on the weekend, just long enough for the cars to race. But now it's returned for the working week, purely to play havoc with my hair. The constant drizzle has the effect of making the top section plaster to my skull, and the bottom flick out like Carol Brady. No amount of brushing or swearing seems to fix it.

By 4PM it's almost dark, with just enough light to see the cars whizzing down Northbourne. The road is streaked and glossy like icing on a cake. Good enough to eat for some - I just saw a yellow Gemini go by, it was flying well over the speed limit when the passenger door opened suddenly. A girl leaned out over the edge, laughing and yelling, swaying dangerously close to the road, before someone inside the car pulled her back in.

Another guy just broke down in an old Fairlane. He managed to get the car up onto the island strip, beneath a sagging gum tree. He banged his head on the steering wheel a half dozen times, then got out, slamming the door behind him. He's about 5 feet nothing and a built like a marshmallow so his body wobbled madly as he kicked the front tyre over and over. Now it's started to rain again, and he's trying to manouver across three lanes of traffic, red faced and still muttering, presumably to call the NRMA, or to throw himself under a truck.

These scenes make me feel soooo relatively sane.

An unusual sight outside my work building this afternoon: a vintage car broken down on Northbourne Avenue. Where are they going to find parts for that?!

I don't endorse driving like a maniac, but yesterday I drove like one. It usually takes almost 2.5 hours to drive to Parentland but it only took 1hr 45 yesterday. It was because of this goddamn Kia Sportage, the name shits me for starters. Car names are getting dumber by the year. They must be running out of names. Anyway, the green beast came looming up our arse on Northbourne Avenue and followed us all the way home.

Nothing annoys me more than a jerk in a 4WD that insists on intimidating smaller vehicles, so I kept my foot down and stayed way ahead of him. On the Hume Highway it's 110 but I maintained a steady 120 to leave him in the dust. When we turned off to Boorowa, he turned too and tried to keep up. That road is deadly, so many tight curves and soft edges, not a place to hoon but he was pissing me off. He was so close I could see his huge dorky glasses and bad haircut. He looked like an accountant that's trying to be With It™. All the more reason not to let him overtake me. We were right on a bend and he decides he can pass me. But when he moves out I hit the floor and head off over the hill. Mwahahhaa. He catches up to me and looms so close I can see the blonde in the passenger seat drinking Diet Pepsi. He stupidly moves out again when a truck comes flying along so he has to quickly go back in again. Idiot!

Next there's some roadworks and we have to stop for a good ten minutes. He's drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and frowning. The lollipop guy tells us there'll be a delay and we say no worries, mate and have a good chat while Mr Sportage actually moves out into the other lane to see what's holding up the traffic. Jerk!

When we finally move off, everyone waves to the lollipop guy, or at least raises a waving finger on the steering wheel, but nooooo, not Mr Sportage! With that lack of respect for our hard-working council workers, there was no way he was gonna overtake me. There was an overtaking lane ahead, the only one between Yass and Boorowa, it was his only clear chance to get me!

So I slowed back down to 100 to lull his smug arse into a false sense of security. Just when the lane came up and he indicated to move into it, my sister screamed, "GO! GO! GO!" and we sped off again. Mwahaha. We'd foiled him for a third time. Seeing his indignant little face fade into the distance was a rush bigger than a dozen orgasms.

He tried to get back up to me and the speeds were getting ridiculous. But later we got stuck behind a slow truck with a horse and Mr Sportage caught up with me. Behind him was a Toyota Celica, fiery red and equally impatient. It was too unsafe to overtake, but Sportage did it anyway. He somehow got around me and the truck and missed an oncoming car by a whisker. It was ridiculous. Where's a cop when you need one?

But here's the kicker: as they went around us, Diet Pepsi Blonde actually turned around and made furious very rude hand gestures at us! That silly wench! That infuriating accountant! This was war now!

Me and the Celica eventually got round the truck, and Sportage wasn't too far away. The Celica had to carry the torch, because flushed with adrenaline as I was, the speedo was tickling numbers I never thought possible before, and I really can't afford to lose my licence. So it was all up to the Celica, and it did a stellar job of tailing Mr Sportage and shitting him off before eventually overtaking. Ahh, it was sweet.

Mr Sportage seemed to run out of puff after that, and by comparison put-putted the last 15 minutes before home. We were finally able to catch up to him. I noticed he had this shoddy advertisment on the back of the vehicle, on the spare tyre cover. It said SureVault Data Back-Up and a mobile phone number. Sweeeeeeet. So he wasn't an accountant, but Data BackUp Nerd was just as appopriate for such a tosser.

I convinced my sister to get out her phone and dial him up as we sneaked up behind him again and say:

"Hello? Is this SureVault Data Back-Up? Guess what buddy? I'M BACK UP YOUR DATE!"

Hehehehe.

But alas... they turned into the McDonalds before we could dial. Checkmate, Mr Sportage.

It was then I returned to my usual rational, safe-driving self. The drive back last night was quiet and slow and a thousand insects kamikazied into the windscreen. It's now so thick with tiny broken legs and wings it looks like the glass is shattered. And I'd only washed the car that morning. Bah.

HAPPINESS: when the boss says "great job, kids!" and lets you go home over an hour early.

SADNESS: getting to the car and realising you've locked the keys inside and it takes over an hour for the NRMA to arrive.

In my bag were 2 apples, 6 CDs, tissues both alive and dead, stolen post-it notes, cards, 2 books and 4 different flavours of lip balm, but no spare car key. Bah. Luckily I had my camera so I could be amused by that. It took the NRMA guy 15 minutes to break in to my car, which is kind of reassuring, it took less than 10 seconds to break into The Bird™.

Car parks aren't the most interesting place for photos. Top row: part of the MITSUBISHI badge, some rocks, a tyre. Bottom row: Fenner Hall, inside the bag, my shoe. WOOHOO.

Danger! Crocodiles! Here we feature the very latest in Aussie anti-theft technology: to ward off those would-be car pinchers, simply affix a toy crocodile to the front of your vehicle and watch them run from those terrifying plastic jaws of death!

(As seen on a Nissan Patrol parked in front of my car today, making for one of those precious God Bless My Digital Camera moments)

I ask you, have you ever seen a more rusty car than this? Spotted in the Woolies car park this eve. I was sposed to just wait in my car in my daggiest shorts and ratty t-shirt and crappy hair moaning about the horrid weather, while my sister bought some things. But I braved the horrified stares of shoppers to take the picture! Woohoo!

When you start seeing cars like this around town, you know it's Summernats Car Festival time again. Urrrgh. I may have to go out there and snavel myself a sexy guy with a V8, flannel shirt and dubious odour.

I'm taking Golden Boy™ out to get his air conditioning fixed next week. The shoddy guy who sold me the car a few months back tried to pull the wool over my eyes, but my dad insisted that he fix it for free since it only went bung a week after I bought the car, in winter no less.

The shoddy guys name just happened to be Terry. Could there be a more dodgy name? All he needed was a pair of check pants and a straw hat and he'd look like the consumate car salesman.

It's funny how we tend to associate certain names with certain occupations or personalities. Just the sound of their name conjuers up an image of a certain kind of person. For me, most of these were forged by incidents in high school or by crap relationships. Hehe. So if your name appears on the list below, don't go taking offence now. It's just how the name thing happened for me.

JASON, JUSTIN, DANE -- class delinquents

NEVILLE, BARRY, CYRIL -- stuffy old farts on a local council

NATALIE, NIKKI, TANYA, TINA -- bitches in high school with too much eyeliner

BILL, MERV, SYD -- farmers

DAVE -- plumbers

DAVE -- guys at the bar that won't leave you alone

DAVE -- public servants

DAVE -- anyone really. Dave's are very versatile.

KERRY, SUSAN, BRYAN -- primary school teachers

KAREN, ANGELA, RACHELLE, NARELLE, MICHELLE -- small town hairdressers

PHILLIPE, ANTON, DELILAH -- big city hairdressers... ooops, stylists

SHAUNA -- girl on fruitless search for weblog content

Has anyone got some name associations they want to share?