ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Reluctant Automotive Critic
It happened, gentle readers. After weeks of false starts, phantom listings, and the -ing eejit’s increasingly desperate phone calls, a car has actually, physically, verifiably appeared on our gravey yard.
I know. I am as surprised as you are.
But let us not rush to the main event. A good journalist sets the scene. A good journalist builds the suspense. And this particular story begins, as all the best stories do, with a blissful day spent entirely with my Mummy.
The Last Ride & The Drop-Off
Wednesday morning. The old Beamer — the Black Chariot, faithful steed of a thousand craft fairs — was fired up for absolutely, guaranteed, positively the last ride. The -ing eejit said so himself. I had heard him say similar things before, but this time there was a finality in his voice. No more MOTs. No more repairs. No more sunk cost fallacies, whatever they are. This was it.
The journey was short. Just down to the train station. Mummy was driving. I sat on his lap, for a change , and watched the familiar Welsh landscape slide past the window. The Beamer wheezed a little on the hill. She knew, I think. Cars know these things.
At the station, Mummy dropped off the -ing eejit. He was heading off to collect the new vehicle — wherever it was, whatever it turned out to be. There had been so many false alarms by this point that I had stopped paying attention to the specifics. A Peugeot? A Vauxhall? A magic carpet? I would believe it when I saw it. And even then, I might request photographic evidence.
The -ing eejit gave Mummy a kiss, gave me a pat that I tolerated with professional courtesy, and disappeared into the station. The Beamer’s engine idled. We pulled away.
And then it dawned on me.
I was to have a lovely day with my Mummy. All to myself.
No -ing eejit. No muttering. No “keep your paws off the dashboard.” Just me and the Goddess, together in the cool quiet of the chapel, while the world outside baked.
A Blissful Day
The weather was, predictably, scorching hot. The sun hammered down on the Welsh countryside like it had a personal grudge against every living thing. But we were inside. The chapel — our workshop, our sanctuary, our base of operations — was cool and calm.
And the AIR CON Beastie hummed its eternal song.
I have conducted a thorough investigayshun, readers, and I am beginning to think that the AIR CON Beastie is not a beastie at all, but some kind of machine. I know. This changes everything. It is sort of like the dreaded ‘Oover — the Hoover, for those not versed in the language of small dogs — except it blows, not sucks. The ‘Oover is a monster that screams and chases and devours crumbs with a hunger that cannot be sated. The AIR CON Beastie simply… breathes. Cool, gentle, consistent breath. It is the ‘Oover’s calm and collected cousin. The one who went into meditation instead of vengeance.
Well, whatever it is — beastie or machine, monster or marvel — I am prepared to tolerate it. It makes our lives more comfortable. And that, after all, is the point of working and living. We work so that we may have cool air in summer and warm blankets in winter and DUK ONNA STIK at five o’clock. The AIR CON Beastie is part of that contract. I accept it.
Mummy was busy making new stock. The kewt boxies, the silver jewellery, the robots — all the beautiful things that the lovely peepels buy from our stall. Her hands moved with the quiet precision of a craftswoman in her element. I watched from my Quilt No.3. I did not interrupt. I did not demand attention. I simply… was. And she was there. And the sun was outside and we were inside and everything, for a few precious hours, was exactly as it should be.
This, readers, is the life.
The Eejit Returns
Tea time. The door opened. The -ing eejit stood there, slightly flushed, slightly triumphant, wearing the expression of a man who has finally achieved something after many failed attempts and is not entirely sure how to process success.
“It’s outside,” he said.
Mummy went to look. I followed, at my own pace. Journalistic scepticism demanded a measured approach. I have been burned before. I have seen photographs of cars that turned out to be figments. I have heard phone calls that led only to disappointment. I was not about to get excited over a car that might, for all I knew, dissolve into mist the moment I sniffed it.
The Reveal: A Critical Assessment
It is a Peugeot. A peepul carrier. A van, essentially, but with seats and windows and pretensions.
It is bright red. Apparently.
The -ing eejit says it is red. Mummy says it is red. The paperwork says it is red. But I looked at it — really looked, with the discerning eye of a journalist who has learned to question everything — and to me it looked sort of… greenish-reddish-grey. A colour that cannot make up its mind. A colour that hedges its bets. I am told that dog vision is different from hooman vision, that we see the world in blues and yellows and muted tones. Fine. I accept the scientific explanation. But I also reserve the right to be unimpressed by a car that cannot commit to a single, definitive shade.
We all jumped in. Mummy took the passenger seat. I took Mummy’s lap. The -ing eejit took the wheel, looking around the cabin with the nervous pride of a man who has just adopted a rescue animal and isn’t sure if it will bite.
First impressions:
The smell. Too much new car, not enough old dog. The Beamer smelled of history. It smelled of a thousand journeys, of coffee spills and wet umbrellas and the faint, permanent undertone of me. The Peugeot smells of… nothing. Or nothing good. It smells of plastic and chemicals and the absence of life. I shall have to work hard to correct this. A few well-placed rolls on the upholstery. A strategic shake near the air vents. This car needs seasoning, and I am the spice.
The view. Better, I concede. The seating position is higher, the windows are bigger, and I can see over the dashboard without stretching. This is a genuine improvement. The old Beamer required me to crane my neck like a meerkat with a press pass. The Peugeot offers a commanding view of the road ahead, the sheep in the fields, and the -ing eejit’s driving (which remains, I regret to report, no better from a higher vantage point).
But it feels… odd. Me no leik. Not yet, anyway.
It is too smooth. Too quiet. The Beamer had personality — a grumble, a rasp, a sense that it was doing you a favour by starting at all. The Peugeot simply… starts. No drama. No negotiation. Where is the sport in that?
The lap situation is different too. Mummy’s lap in the Beamer was a known quantity — a perfect fit, worn into shape by years of market journeys. The Peugeot’s passenger seat is unfamiliar territory. The lap is the same lap, but the context has changed. I am a dog who values consistency. I am not a fan of disruption.
But I am also a professional. I shall adapt. I shall learn to love this greenish-reddish-grey impostor. Or at least tolerate it. The Beamer was a friend. The Peugeot is a colleague. Colleagues take time.
Signing Off
So there it is, gentle readers. The Phantom Chariot has been found. The -ing eejit has finally, after four failed attempts and more phone calls than I care to count, secured a vehicle. It is red (allegedly). It is tall. It smells wrong. The windows are big and the ride is smooth and everything about it is slightly unsettling.
But it is here. It exists. And that, I suppose, is progress.
The old Beamer sits on the driveway, awaiting her fate. I gave her a parting sniff. She carried us faithfully for thirteen years, over 180,000 miles, through craft fairs and vet visits and birthday steak missions. She was the backdrop to my entire career. I shall miss her, even if I complained about the dashboard situation. A journalist must have standards, but a journalist must also have a heart.
Farewell, Black Chariot. You were a good car. The Peugeot has large shoes to fill.
And me? I shall spend the evening on Quilt No.2, processing this upheaval. Loki is nearby. Alice is elsewhere (thankfully). The AIR CON Beastie hums its machine-not-beastie hum. Mummy is here, and that is the constant that matters.
Tomorrow, perhaps, a test drive. A proper journey. A chance for the Peugeot to prove itself. Until then, I remain sceptical. But open-minded. A good journalist is always open-minded.
KthxBai — Errol
Head of Marketing, Lap Connoisseur, and Reluctant Passenger of the Red (?) Peugeot
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