A pretty girl in a plain white Corolla looked across at me, as we were stopped at a red light, and lip-synched "Love your car." And something else I couldn't quite make out: "I have one too", or "You're sexy too". The latter is admittedly unlikely. I mouthed back "Thank you" and then got all shy, hoping the lights would change. A 1999 MGF VVC, with the rare rear spoiler, has apparently still got it.
It's interesting to see what one little incident throw up, if you take a moment to notice that things are being triggered. Three things came up for me, in the next few moments.
Random inspiration
I'm not sure what made the incident stand out (beyond vanity), except that a few moments earlier I had heard a song on the radio, from an Aussie troubadour whose name I wish I could remember, called "Mario Milano's Monaro". I was perhaps just struck by the simple narrative of the song and the unexpected pleasure of the girl in the Corolla encounter.
Sentences started lining themselves up in my head, like some kind of prose poem. I can't recapture that poetry now, or perhaps I just thought it was poetic at the time. Something I hadn't appreciated, but can see now, is that inspiration can be an enjoyable experience in itself, rather than just the precursor to some sort of concrete output.
Patina
There's something re-assuring to me about the look of well-worn leather, or the dull gloss of a frequently used though aging spanner. I flatter such things as having "patina", although there is another way of looking at it, to which my wife subscribes, called "shabby".
I was mildly peeved by the comment from the guy who recently serviced the MGF, that it was "a nice tidy daily driver". Hang on – I know there are a few very minor dints and scratches. The alloy gear knob is mildly pitted and the convertible top is scuffed.
But every time I climb in and drive it, it just seems to fit; envelops me in an aura of comfort and familiarity in a world of throw-aways and rapid obsolescence. I love genuine patina, and even a bit of genuine shabby.
Simpatico
A bloke who was in the midst of an affair with a mid-sixties VW kombi (the one with the long sunroof and the flip-up split windscreens) once told me, possibly in self-defence, that there was a concept called simpatico: the reciprocal bond that can exist between a man and an inanimate object.
I'm pretty sure that he restricted the definition to men, although I wouldn't want to preclude the possibility of there being a female version of simpatico.
The MGF is a colour called Nightfire Red, no doubt some inspiration of the marketing department. I've always called it, and by extension the car, "Frankly Scarlett". I reckon I am entitled to misquote Mr Gable for lyrical effect.
Scarlett makes me smile each time I hear the snick-snick of the gearbox when I change from 3rd to 4th. I hardly ever notice the symphony of rattles and shakes.
I caught myself saying out loud: "Hey, I missed you" when I picked it up from the Park'n'Fly a few weeks ago.
We both love that long drive home from the airport, with the daggy 60's playlist on the iPod that goes for hours. Scarlett never complains about my rendition of 24 Hours from Tulsa, and it actually sounds in tune to both of us at 3,100 revs. That's part of the reciprocal nature of simpatico.
If ever I'm going to be seriously challenged by the central notion of impermanence, of all things rising and passing away, it will be when I can no longer half-slide, half-fall into that patina-covered leather bucket.
But anyway, I wonder what the Corolla girl actually said as I pulled away from the traffic lights blushing.
PS – If you haven't heard of Mario Milano, or his famous wrestler's finishing move the "Atomic Drop", then either you are under 50 or your dad has never bored you by recounting Mario's battles with Killer Kowalski and Skull Murphy. You could start here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mario_Milano
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