Edgemobile Epitaph

"If you can't get me a week in Mauritius with Katie Melua, I want a new car for Father's Day,” I said, but I don't think they were really listening.
 
Our whole family was together again.  Indeed in special father's Day appreciation, my son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), had popped home for the weekend….. with eight friends from his college.
 
It was an educational visit -  for me, that is,  because when my son had told me that in his class you could find ALL SORTS of personal ‘Anti-establishment statements’ -  tattoos, body piercings and even dreadlock hair, I  hadn't realized that they were all on one person -  himself.
 
Honestly, his eight friends seemed perfectly normal.  In fact I think they were quite disappointed when they arrived -  they had come all the way from Cape Town to see the weird dude's 'old ballies', only to discover that we were just average-looking Joes………..  (Mrs Ed’s Bon Jovi tramp stamp is still in its planning stages)

But I digress.  Perhaps I am still in shock.  Why was I asking for a new car?
 
Aaaahhhh. Because we have been struck with bad news.

Alas!  Alack! 'Tis  with a heavy heart that I have to tell you that The EDGEMOBILE is no more.  Yes!  Our lovely old, white (and rust) family / business Toyota Stallion was involved in an accident (or 'a little bump' as the driver called it at the time) on the way back from her fortnightly soirée to Port Elizabeth where she fetches our newspapers.   I won't go into the oil-thirsty details, but she and the barrier at the toll booth had a disagreement, and our old girl lost.

And I must say I do feel rather guilty…. Why?

Well, in last issue of this paper, indeed in this very column, I frivolously mentioned her without the due respect she deserved, without even the inkling of a hint of the love we have for her, for the special place she held in our hearts….

That was the same issue of The EDGE she was carrying when she took that fateful 'shot left' and rammed her front end into the merciless metal barrier.  Perhaps it was intentional?  Perhaps she was tired and thought that the 300 000km+ she had on the clock was enough mileage for one 1800cc motor  and, with no retirement in sight, it was time for her to take drastic measures....?

The driver called me early in the morning to tell me the tale, but instead of shocking me out of my deep slumber with such tragic news, he 'Zimmed' it for me.  I'm not even sure if he is a Zimbabwean, - maybe he knew I was, and did it as a sign of respect.

“Zimmed”? 
 
Oh.  Let me explain.  We Zimbabweans hate bad news.  Obviously there's been a fair amount of it in Zim for the past 20 years, in fact, world over, life has refrained from being a  'bowl of cherries' for some time now, but that doesn't mean we have to like it just because we are used to it. Bad news, that is.

 No, we still hate it.  And there's only one thing a Zimbabwean hates more than bad news (actually there's two, but I have to refrain from saying 'Robert Mugabe' in print in case I get into trouble)  and that is giving bad news. So we avoid it all costs.  We look on the brighter side wherever possible,
“Well at least your OTHER eye is still in its socket!” you'll hear us say. 
Or “What about ALL THE OTHER buildings in New York that DIDN'T get hit by planes?”

But what do we do when we get caught in a position where we HAVE TO deliver bad news?  Well,  then we simply modify it so that it is 'mildly bad news' , or 'a little annoying news'.

For example: When living in Zimbabwe, one should not ask about distance.  I remember once, when I was about 20, running out of petrol (actually I remember doing it at least 28 times, but that's just me).  After climbing out of the car and rummaging round in the boot for an old coke bottle, I  stood on the road wondering whether I should hitch hike or walk to find fuel.

The problem was that I had no idea where the nearest petrol station was.  Indeed, if the truth be told, I had no idea where I was:- Sometime the evening before I had been persuaded by a rather drunk friend-of-a-friend to drive us to a fantastic, free-beer, whopper of a party on a fantastic, whopper of a farm* in a place called Marandellas, just outside Harare, and now I was just trying to get home. 

*(PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING: If by chance you ever get told, late at night, about a fantastic,free-beer, whopper of a party somewhere out of town, chances are it's just some swine wanting a lift home. So be warned - you may end up being thrown out by his rather peeved, pajama-clad and pistol-bearing parents, because spotty cousin Beatrice found you in the kitchen innocently wolfing down their precious port and the three old sausages from the fridge.)

Any way I digress.  Again.  Where was I?  Oh yes, standing next to my car.  So I asked a man going past on a bicycle where the nearest petrol station was, and his cheerful answer was
 'It's just around the corner, sir!”
And off he went.  Off I went too.  A quick walk would do my port-pounding head the world of good, I thought. 

Of course you will have guessed by now that the petrol station was not just around that particular corner.  In fact it was about 15km away. 15 long, hot, blistering kilometers.  But it gave me time to ponder his motives for telling me such an untruth, and, after getting a few dozen profanities out of my system, I ended up thinking he had merit.  I had asked him a question and he had two choices- to make me unhappy or to make me happy.  He had chosen the latter, and been rewarded with a brief smile of appreciation.

It was the same with the Edgemobile.  “Mr Webb,” the driver had said on the phone, “You need to come here.  We had a little bump with the car.” So off I went, thinking oh my word, I hope he hasn't cracked a headlight or something.

I suppose it was a little bump -  sort of like the Second World War was a small argument.

 We towed her back to my brother-in-law's workshop, poor thing. And, though we did all we could, the insurance assessor had the final say, and he could not be convinced.  Like a hardened battlefield medic he simply looked at her front end, shook his head and growled “It's no good, she's gone.”
“No!  I cried, jamming the keys into the ignition and frantically cranking her over “She'll be ok!  She has to be!”

The engine barely turned once, and a grinding metallic noise choked out,

“You don't understand!” I wept, “ She's not just a van, she's one of the family….
she's…..   
 …. our…..
….. edgemobile…..”
But he strode off into the sunset,  (actually it was into the Wimpy, but that doesn't make for good romantic writing, does it?)  and as Mrs Ed put her comforting arm around my shoulders,  I slumped into a dejected heap. 

The assessor had been right about the Edgemobile, of course, there was nothing we could do.  It was beyond our bank balance to repair her, and even if we did, she would never be the same again.  It just wouldn't be fair on her, would it?
 
But I had also been right.  That assessor really didn't understand.  I guess in his line of work he has to steel himself against getting too personally involved with the lame and dying vehicles he sees everyday, but I'm sure if he knew that she had been a close family member for 11 years, he would have been more understanding of the tears in my eyes ….

So did I get a car for Father's Day?  No!  Though Mrs Ed generously suggested we 'just get one and put it on the credit card',  and my son and daughter said that if we went to a dealership and bought three - we would probably get enough discount to pay for a holiday.
 
But obviously I have to look at it from the more serious, adult angle.  We need a car, and as the head of the household I should come up with a plan to make sure that happens.  Fully prepared to sacrifice my own personal time and energy to solve the problem,  I have sent off an official letter of request to someone who I know has the means to provide us one.

After all, she’s a mega star, and I have no doubt that a week together in Mauritius will be plenty enough time to persuade Katie to buy me any car I desire....