Janet Christie’s Mum’s the Word – What kind of desperado tries to hot wire a 19-year-old-car?

My wee red car reaches the end of the road

Mum's the Word. Youngest Child's drawing of us in the wee red car negotiating a sleeping policeman as Middle Child watches from the roof of our house. Pic: J Christie

I should never have written about my car. Used phrases like ‘in its prime’ and ‘plenty of life in it yet’. The kiss of death. Only a week later it’s been written off, bound for the scrap heap.

I knew it was coming but I can’t help feeling emotional, thinking about it on top of the pile with the big metal grippy thing bouncing down on the bonnet, crushing it into a cube.

We’ve had happy times. I can’t even remember how many years, but according to the registration it’s 19 years old. It arrived when a friend’s daughter was going abroad and wanted to sell. I needed a car and why not a wee red Citroen C3?

I was cynical when it arrived with a gender and a name - Audrey, because she reminded the previous owner of a ‘wee middle aged lady’. Hmph. One of those names, like mine, not likely to fly on Tinder, shorthand for ‘just don’t bother me with any nonsense’, and despite my efforts to call it ‘the car’, the name and gender stuck.

Small and sturdy, she’s risen to every challenge. Previous careful lady owners used her to transport (small) sheep to the vet and as accommodation for T in the Park - the stains still a valeting nightmare - and I’ve marvelled at her capacity for stuff and people - seven is the record (obviously not on a public road because that’s probably illegal).

But since someone tried to steal her the other night and damaged her to the extent the insurance company says she’s not worth fixing, she’s at the end of the road.

What kind of desperado tries to hot wire a 19-year-old-car? Must have been some kind of sick bet or attempt to kidnap her for stock car racing. Since she won’t start I can’t take her for one last glory ride down Leith Walk with her up-on-tippy-toe wheels perfectly wedged in the tram lines as we glide towards the sun setting behind the Foot of the Walk multis, like Jayne Torvill in one last sad Bolero.

Worse, I’m the only one who cares. The family member who on hearing of her demise and the amount the insurance was paying out said: “How much?! For that scrap heap?” is dead to me. Or they were until they said they’d put me on their insurance and I could borrow their car.

Janet Christie’s Mum’s the Word – if a car has moss, does that make it eco-friendly?