Baby you can drive my car

For over 25 years I’ve wanted an MX5, how I’ve daydreamed of cruising the highways of life with the roof off and a 50’s style headscarf on.  YES, it’s finally happening, I’m going to release my deeply suppressed glamourous alter ego and own the car I was always destined to drive.

How I was supposed to look

Husband found the perfect one at a garage down the road and with great excitement booked a test drive. A journey to the future, sporty me. 

Salesman gave the usual spiel and into my hands placed the keys, this was it … I was off in a sleek, speedy, scarlet piece of gorgeousness.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, real life never seems to play out how it did in your head.

As I got in I realized that the seat was a lot further down than I had anticipated, like subterranean low. I seemed to pick up speed as l dropped down and when my bum connected I did the unforgiveable and let out a ooommmpppphhhff noise.  Not a purp thank the Lord but the noise you start to make once you overtake 50 whenever you’re required to bend, stretch or in sit in a sports car.

Not an auspicious start and the salesman looked rather wary as I tried to style it out with a cheery wave driving off the forecourt, only to brake abruptly, in my embarrassed haste I’d forgotten husband.   Once finally on the road it became very clear that a short person in a glorified go-kart does not see much in this roadster, not even the end of the bonnet.  Things that would have been clear as day in my car had become invisible, curbs, parking bollards and traffic cones were sneaking up on me and it was only husband’s high pitched screaming helpful commentary that alerted me to these potential hazards.

Gear changes were damn near impossible, the clutch ferocious as Harry’s biog, the seat so far forward to accommodate my diminutive legs, knees were smashing against the steering column every time I employed the gear stick, leaving them bruised and numb.

After 10 thoroughly miserable minutes I meandered back to the garage narrowly avoiding the entrance sign.

Waiting eagerly for us on the lot the salesman had an expression that a) radiated relief the car was back in one piece and b) was foolishly optimistic some commission was coming his way.

Dreams destroyed I abandoned the traitorous motor in a space large enough to avoid any regrettable incidents requiring me to pay the £500 excess.   Aha hahahaha, if it was low getting in, it was a very long way up getting out and I had to muster every ounce of self restraint not to use the salesman’s trousers as a climbing wall.  Instead I grasped the top of the door frame and swung myself out clinging like a needy monkey, then after what felt like an eternity I hoisted myself to an upright position with an accompanying  errrrggghhhhffff.  Effortless and gazelle like – provided the gazelle had three legs and was being set upon by a ravenous hyena.

How to exit a sportscar with style and grace

I then engaged in a long and protracted conversation with the startled salesperson as unconvinced my legs would be able to propel me forward and after sufficient time when feeling had returned I shuffled to my car with as much dignity as I could muster.

I’ll cruise through this midlife crisis, but sadly at a sedate pace in a chocolate brown, fridge shaped Kia – which pretty much sums me up!

Headscarves now on Ebay

Anyways where would the dog have sat?