Thursday, 11 January 2007

• My First Car

  As many of you probably have heard, Apple has just recently released their attempt to enter the cell-phone market, the iPhone. Honestly, I don’t know why so many people are getting into such a craze over this device. But, I suppose, people are always excited about buying into the latest thing, even if it doesn’t work very well. You know, when gunpowder and hand-held rifles were first put into use in the armies of Europe, a longbowman could fire farther, more accurately, more often. Imagine. Inaccurate, slow rate of fire, and small range. And yet, because all the monarchs wanted to seem like they were on the edge of the latest craze they all bought into it. Ridiculous. Still, I suppose without progress, we would not have many of the wonderful pieces of technology we have today (many of which were developed with the hope that they would, eventually, save us time, thus giving us more leisure time. Joke's on us, though. We work far longer than we did before we invented time-saving devices – and most of that time is spent in repairing the damned stuff).
  

  Anyway. All this reminds me of the first time I got a car.
  

  The year was 1930. I was 22, and living in France at the time. A mixed period, with the economic disaster in America. Luckily, France remained relatively safe until a year later, but that’s another story. My family was well off, and so my father agreed to buy a new Italian auto, a two-seater Fiat 514. With a 100 km/h top-speed, I felt like I had left the old world of horses far behind. And yet, the actual getting of the car was something of an adventure.
  

  

  That's the car I knew (it not... actually the person)
  

  I woke up early that day, excited about the event. After having something to eat, father and I set out for the store. It was lumming out, enough to curl one’s liver, and I was shinnicked. However, I was not about to give up. Eventually we arrived, and saw on the store's sheep’s head clock it was near midday. Invited inside by a lolloping whilt who looked a slype, I accepted a wedge-floating drink, before getting down to business. Eventually, after some discussion, my father and I chose the vehicle I wanted, and agreed to accompany the store-owner to the bank, that we might make the transaction. However, after withdrawing the amount, someone nearby let squizzle, causing a grithbruch and much shock to myself. All around, I heard babbling and pedlar’s French. A man who seemed taken with dipsomania, who looked a mere corduroy, approached me with his weapon and lackeys, and, taking the money we had just withdrawn, made off with his pelf. A large sum, this nearly left us in a position to eat the mad cow, so, justifiably, we were annoyed. In fact, we suspected the dealer of committing a blague, and acting in league with the robbers. So, we hailed a nearby officer of the law. Luckily, quite a number of them happened to be nearby, having returned from a case. So, they recovered our money, and we invited them all to the nearest bar, lawyer’s treat. Eventually, my father put to duffifie the last bottle of alcohol, bid goodbye to the dough boxer and bibliothecary with whom we had been chatting, and we left. The rest of the day was taken up in the frenzy of excitement that comes from any person getting their first car, but that’s, I’m afraid, another story entirely.

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