CrashIn the couple of seconds before I collide, I think no more than, I wonder what will happen. I am not anxious and it would be ridiculous to be afraid. Then I think, my car's fucked and then I hit him and my car is fucked.
I don't suppose there is ever a good time to collide with a Nissan Micra that wasn't looking or didn't see you, but at this point, with no job, no money and no income now that I feel unable to beat poker, it feels a bit like a cosmic joke. My best hope is that God is humbling me before doing me a favour.
A few minutes later I am standing in the rain on the phone. I am mostly in one piece, but Lady Jane is not. I want to imagine the workshop straightening her out, restoring her to life, but I know that the callous insurance assessor will write her off on a glance, and I will be given what a car of that age is worth, which is close to nothing. Old cars are always going to be worth more to their owners than they are as goods.
Not to mention that you grow to love your car. You learn how it's best driven, how it corners, how it likes to be accelerated, when it is unhappy or in discomfort. Your driving moulds to the car, so that any other car will at first feel awkward or even unpleasant to drive. A bit like changing girlfriends. Except I don't generally pay several thousand dollars for a girlfriend. Not up front anyway.