A letter to my car

Dear 2002 Honda City,

You were never my first choice. I had my eyes fixed on a brand-new top-of-the-range Metropolitan Gray Ford Fiesta. But something happened and I no longer had enough money for a new car, and that’s when I was introduced to you.

The decision to hook up with you was purely intellectual. You used to belong to a good friend of a good friend, which means you’re unlikely to be a lemon with artificially reduced mileage. You were always protected by first class insurance and had your regular checks at the Honda doctors.

But you’re not the year, make, or colour that I like. Not even close. You even have these ugly “gold” door locks topped with a fake zirconia diamond (which would continue to be a source of ridicule among friends).

You were not a car I was proud of. You were a functional purchase, a mode of transport to get me from point A to B sheltered from the rain and the sun. When parking in tight spaces, I have to manually fold in your side mirrors. You don’t even have cupholders for my iced chocolate!

In the 18 months that we’ve been together, I was never faithful. Working in a car company made it even worse. Sleeker models turned my head while I lusted after younger cars. I was ever ready to dump you and jump ship if the chance arose.

Now that the opportunity has come knocking, I find myself strangely loathe to part with you. I’ve grown accustomed to you and your little quirks. Like my old PJs, you’ve seen me at my worst. The True Red Fiesta would probably be less forgiving of my tatty shorts and tattier slippers.

Most importantly, you are all mine. Every screw, every scratch. I don’t owe anyone anything for you. And you’ve been a good partner. No tempers, no tantrums. It might not have been love at first sight but you’ve found your way into my heart as my very first car.

Your recalcitrant owner


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