Let's be honest -- I was sick fed up of the music in my car. Six months of nothing but Green Day, Feeder, Paul Weller and the Commitments. And to be honest I only played the Commitments once, couldn't face any more than that. So today I decided to change the CDs in my car.
Now I know that sounds all posh -- I've never had a car with a CD Player in it -- but I drive a leprous old Daihatsu Fourtrak. Seriously, there's more rust than car. If you sneeze loudly something falls off of it. Which is kind of liberating. The first car I ever bought was brand new: yes I had to save like a bastard to get the deposit together, and indenture my soul to make the remaining payments, but that sucker was showroom shiny. My car. Then, when She Who Must Be Appeased started complaining that four years was really long enough to be sharing a car when we worked in completely different parts of town, I caved in and bought another new car. That too was MY CAR, and She Who Must got the first one (on reasonable repayment terms to the Bank Of Beard). And I doted on both those cars -- went out and washed them when they were dirty, gave them names (Piglet and Roo respectively*), mourned their first scratch and dent**– but with this car it's different.
The thing I drive now doesn't even have a name, it cost me £3,500 from someone She Who Must Ride Horses knows, who I think had used it to cultivate new and interesting strains of metal corrosion. You could pee on the thing every night and not make as much rust as these people managed. But it's a Fourtrak, so it'll keep on going till the seas go dry and people eventually realise white socks with black trousers make you look like a child molester.
Which is kind of liberating (the rust, not the white socks), this is the first car where I don't really care if some wee stone flies off the road and chips the paintwork, because it's ruined already. Last week I was guddling about underneath the thing with a friend of a friend, taking an angle grinder to it so we could weld bits back on. OK, so this was only because the friend who's friend the friend of a friend was, had jumped on a part of the car that promptly fell off, but it was still manly grinding and welding. Grrrrrr! Even if 'manly grinding' does sound a bit suspect. In the not too distant past I've fixed the rear lights using bits from the Kitchen From Hell we ripped out when we moved in. Tomorrow I'm going to take a drill to bits of it. Nothing like a bit of mechanical engineering to make the old testosterone thrum.
Anyway, back to the music. I found a copy of 'Our Town: the best of Deacon Blue' in the CD rack. I've not listened to it for years, but putting it back in the car, clicking it on... Boom -- I was twelve years ago. Or more. And though the singing along wasn't word perfect, it was near enough. Suddenly everything was peeled back to a more complicated time when life was a lot more... well complicated. But the music is still good. So I'll sing along for a couple of months, till I can't stand the sound of it any more and bury it back in the CD rack for another 12 years.
Ah yes: nostalgia's all well and good, but it isn't what it used to be.
* See: I can do literary
** Gifted by anonymous bastards that never left a note, may God rot their eyes in their sockets and replace them with burning onions!