Bog Myrtle & Peat

I don’t know a thing about cars. I like to think that I’m not a stupid person and I can often pick up new information quite quickly when it interests me. The problem is that cars don’t interest me.

I’ve been driving for almost nine years and have driven a huge assortment of old bangers in that time. To be quite honest, I can’t even remember the makes and models of many of them. I remember details like top speed, colour and ashtray location, and the rest sort of fades into a haze of uncertainty and indifference. I’m sometimes surprised by how much other people think and talk about their cars, but then I remember that I lie in bed and think about grouse every night so I’m not really able to judge anyone for having obscure interests.

Anyhow, my new suzuki jimny ceased to work altogether last week, and despite advice from some well qualified and talented mechanics, there seems to be no way of making it work again. That is how it has been phrased to me, because mechanical words of more than one syllable mean nothing at all in my brain. Without my 4×4, my lamping routine is as restricted and as unpleasant as it ever was, being forced to carry battery packs over thick moss. It’s a real pain, and until they can find out what is stopping it working, stop it and get it working again, I’m reduced to driving my girlfriend’s car…