Hymn: Don't Start

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I have my knockers. They taunt me from every side. They base their abuse on the flimsy premise that I deserve it. And while that is factually accurate, I don’t believe it is a fair argument.

‘You! C!’ They say, ‘We’ll see.’
‘You’re a dreamer, a screamer, a hopeless in-betweener.
‘You’re broke, you’re a joke, you’re a weird-looking bloke.
‘You think, you fink, you can sort it with a wink.
‘You can’t.’

To which, I reply, “Bollocks.” God, I hate men in nylon tights.

It is true, however, that I do tend to start a lot of things. It is also true that I finish less. This evening I managed to start something that my detractors thought was finished, never to be finished. My trusty old steed: my MG. B. GT.

She has lain forlornly, if not forgotten, for seven years, gathering dust and mice. At first in the quiet seclusion on my Nana’s garage. More recently, on our drive. Single-handedly she has taken thousands of pounds off the value of the houses in our street. But no more. She lives! She lives!

Admittedly she coughed a little, bringing everyone to their window, twitching nervously around innumerable curtains. And belched out enough fumes to kill every canary in a five mile radius but she ran and she moved. Under her own steam. Obviously, not steam. That would make her a traction engine and that would be ridiculous.

It is a small thing but it has made me very happy. I feel like Toad and his marvellous motorcar. Did I mention she’s bright yellow? Toot toot.