The Hydramobile is sick, so for the past week I've been driving a courtesy car. Call me a superficial, materialistic snob, but I don't feel that the replacement is quite up to scratch. Put it like this, I'm used to Tesco Finest and they've given me Tesco Value. It doesn't have a CD player, so I'm stuck with the radio. It doesn't have air conditioning, so I'm stuck to my shirt. And it doesn't have automatic transmission, so I'm stuck with a stick.
People don't take care of hire cars. The boot has been bashed (or, for our American readers: the trunk has been trashed), which makes me look like one of those spacially-challenged people for whom the word 'oops' is invariably preceded by the sound of crunching metal.
I'm used to a graceful Swan Lake dancer, but temporarily I'm driving a hippopotamus in a tutu. It accelerates like a sloth on valium, corners like an elephant with its feet tied together and provides the bone-shaking ride of a camel with delerium tremens. With all this and its distinctive just-valeted aroma of plastic lemon, if I spend any length of time in it I emerge feeling slightly nauseous.
The worst thing however is the seats, dahlinks, the seats. We don't condone the mindless slaughter of dumb animals purely for upholstery purposes either over at Hydragenic or here at Sashinka-dot-Blogspot. Nevertheless, we do enjoy the cosy minimalism of our regular grey (faux-)suede interior. Sadly the courtesy car's seats have been covered more with economy in mind than aesthetics. Nylon may have its place, but my ass requires more class.
Sashinka is currently up, up and away
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