Scribbling #40: Manual is not a Spanish Waiter

During our transition back to In-gel-stan, I bought our family a shiny car to go along with our shiny new life.  It was a large estate (translation for Canadians and other exotic species: 'station wagon', not a piece of land on wheels), it was black and above all, it was Central European - a Skoda.  Yes, I do like a good. reliable Skoda.  I don't do 'cool' or 'French', I do 'less bills', 'less money'.

Mrs. C is Canadian, and that comes with a few problems.  Not just the penchant for using a lot of land in order to go nowhere (e.g. Saskatchewan) , or the constant moaning on about the lack of good cheap steak anywhere else in the world except for Alberta, but because she had to prove that she could drive a manual car in order to drive the car that I had just bought.  For the record, Mrs. C had been driving a "standard" for the last six years in Slovakia, where the police only seemed to care if you're carrying a passport, yellow jacket and a warning triangle, if not an actual license.  When presented with the fact that she had to prove that she could drive our new, shiny, manual car, her equally shiny Canadian driver's licence only covered automatics.

This is a shame, because in the UK saying that you "only" have an automatic licence blesses you with the stigma of  "only" being an incompetent driver or an American.  Delete where appropriate.

We really should have done our research before we bought the shiny Skoda.  It led to an attempt at driving lessons that more or less failed miserably, after talking to a miserable, starving, driving instructor.  We also found out that it now takes an average of fifty, FIVE-O, driving lessons in order to pass the driving test.  Totally put off by the general miserableness (that year's UK summer weather being the most rubbish on record), we came to a reluctant agreement to change the shiny Skoda to a shiny something else, hopefully two for the price of one, like we did with our Passat.

I really should have got a bumper sticker for that car that read, 'All parts falling off this vehicle are engineered by Germany'.

We decided, after a democratic dictatorship-style (mine) vote, to NOT buy an MPV/minivan.  If we did buy one this says a couple of things.  First, goodbye to all resemblance of manhood.  Second, school run mum.  Instead we did something worse.  We bought a 4x4 Volvo.  Which still smacks of school run mum, but at least we're bigger than everyone else because we need to protect our children!

This machine was, in an old man kind of way, comfy and reliable, like putting on a familiar pair of shoes or an old baggy sweater from the back of the cupboard. And then 12 months on, just before its MOT (technical test) kicked in, it just... died.  Like, no hope for the future died.  Like, we just got a call this morning then Uncle Steve had just dropped dead after watching EastEnders.  It was shocking.  We were then a family that was down to one itty-bitty car where we have to squeeze our entire family into a 3 door supermini.  It's no mean feat, but at least I'm still limber enough to (somewhat gracefully) insert the chilluns into their child seats.

And now we're off to Canada, land of V8 pick-up trucks, hockey, maple syrup, bad beer and amazingly polite beggars.  If we bought a *cough* minvan there, then it would have its own area code and have a postbox as an optional extra.  You can get in and eventually you'll get to the seat with the steering wheel.  For some reason it's on the wrong side of the car, but I'll just put that down to rebellious colonials. 

I shall get my cowboy hat ready.  I'm sure that nobody will approve.