Re: My car.
Here is another story about a Daewoo!
.
The day the partridge landed in the old pear tree behind the garage, that was the day I saw Gloria. It was only a few weeks before Christmas and the branches were bare of leaves. I didn't know she was called Gloria then, I just heard the sick stutter of her misfiring car as she pulled onto my forecourt.
I'd been changing the clutch on an old Ford, when I heard the light footsteps and the polite cough from beside the workshop door, I wiped my hands on a rag and walked over.
God, she was beautiful. Every mechanic's dream on a cold December afternoon. She tossed her long, blonde hair off her shoulder and smiled a winning smile. "I wonder if you'd look at my car? It's not running properly at all."
"What sort is it?"
"It's a Daewoo."
"Hmm. . . I don't normally work on those, but anything for a pretty lady."
She smiled that smile again and my knees went soft. I walked out with her to look at the car. It was blue and it glittered in the weak sunlight. "It looks smart," I said.
"I've not had it long, I bought it off a former Chelsea footballer."
I popped open the bonnet and glanced around. "There's your problem, Miss. . ."
"Gloria," she said, "call me Gloria." My mind took her image and filed it in a gilt-edged, leather folder marked ‘Gloria'.
I tightened the loose lead to the alternator, started the car up and revved it. It sang sweet as a bird, sweeter than that bloody partridge in a pear tree anyhow.
She gushed her thanks. "You're wonderful," she said. "What do I owe you?"
"Forget it," I said, "It was nothing, have that one on me."
She did the knee-weakening smile again and kissed me on the cheek, then she climbed back into her car and drove away. And then I realised I'd never see her again, didn't know her full name, her phone number, where she lived, nothing.
The most beautiful creature ever to grace the doors of my workshop and I'd never see her again: Gloria, in ex-Chelsea's Daewoo.
.
.
.
.