Christmas Filth

23 12 2009

Today was a day of frustration and venomous traffic-ridden anger. For the first time since records began, I actually completed all Christmas shopping with time to spare, and therefore woke up this morning with a strange feeling of festive limbo. Call me glutton for punishment, but for some reason I decided to embark upon an entirely pointless trip to get my car washed.

As any keen car washer knows, steel skies is the best environment under which to lavish attention on your vehicle, that tangible weather which threatens to rain any second but thus far has resisted. The bucket can be cold enough to not soften the paint and the water won’t dry in blinding sun, necessitating arduous chamois action. Alas, it’s late December in pre-Pennine Cheshire, so of course it is blowing a combination of rain so heavy it actually inflicts harm, and snow so brown it could well be nuclear fallout. This seemed the most appropriate climate to wash my filthy car, which was once a vibrant pearlescent yellow and now shares its hue with Coleman’s finest French mustard.

When I lived in Northampton, finding someone to wash your car was as easy as finding syphilis in a student bedsit. The choice was immense. You could take the cheap option, where an army of indeterminable origin would descend upon your car with sponges they found in a gutter and scratch all your paint off, thus making it clean. Or you could take out a small loan and hire a Professional Valet Service, where freshly-oiled virgins would buff the bodywork with a never-ending supply of kittens. The same cannot be said of Cheshire. In my admittedly limited expedition this afternoon, I encountered not a single valet service, at either end of the economic scale, and in doing so further sullied my car’s gorgeous colour.

So my journey continued fruitlessly, through the ridiculous Christmas traffic, with my level of anger rising exponentially with every mile I crawled. It was mayhem out there. Drivers were jumping lights, squeezing into spaces barely larger than a fart and shouting at every other vehicle on the road. Trucks were straddling lanes, berating impatient half-wits for disobeying the very British queue. Children and the infirm were thrown from the back seats of MPVs into the roadside to quell their nauseating screams. And there I was, clutch-foot in agony, with all my Christmas presents back at home, safe in the knowledge that this was one of the most stupid decisions I’d made in quite a while. The worst thing is that tomorrow is Christmas Eve, meaning I have to find another way to waste the time otherwise spent running around the Trafford Centre on fire.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: