No wheels on my wagon…

Who needs a car?

I am a great advocate of walking everywhere, of not jumping in the car to pop to the supermarket, of perambulating to, from and around the local Royal Park at any opportunity.

I obstinately turn down the offer of lifts if I can easily get the train instead, sometimes to an unreasonable and unbecomingly sourpuss-esque degree – for which, indeed, I have recently felt compelled to apologise.

I am renowned locally for my walking delivery service, commenced in Covid-straitened days. There’s something rather gratifying in walking somewhere for someone else’s benefit, whilst at the same time accumulating healthy steps and often listening to brain-enriching podcasts (or uplifting music).

I have recently totted up how much I saved from my first three-year Senior Railcard (lots!) and renewed it for another three years. I love train travel – and even thirty-odd years of suburban London commuting hasn’t robbed me of this (partly perhaps because so much of it was spent barely conscious of an early morning and therefore didn’t count).

One of my proudest parenting achievements is that both offspring walked to school – one of them throughout his entire school career, the other for as much of it as we could reasonably insist upon although buses and friends’ generous parents sometimes encroached on this noble objective.

I am perhaps overly proud of myself in this regard, particularly when one considers my massively over-compensatory addiction to air-travel regularly described in these jottings. Oops.

It’s not that I don’t like cars or driving. I was brought up with a brother who loved cars and a father with a keen interest in the relative merits of different models – and a predilection for Saabs for many years. None of this ‘first to spot a yellow car’ on long unseat-belted childhood journeys; it was more likely to be first to see a particular model of Ford Capri, or a favourite example of old Cortina (yes, even then, we were nostalgic for the tripartite rear light clusters of the Mark 1) or … a Jaaaag.

I learned to drive as soon as I was seventeen. You couldn’t go anywhere in the countryside without access to a car and, even though it took me three goes to pass, I was still one of the earliest at school to be able to chauffeur friends around in Mum’s old Vauxhall Viva. (I am slightly exaggerating here, because I too always walked to school which was only just out of sight from my parents’ house and I reached my Saturday job in the town four miles away by using the bus which stopped right next to our front garden.)

These days I can go months without driving, but two weekends ago I drove myself down to Bournemouth to support three friends who were doing a half-marathon (another bipedal activity of which I sadly no longer feel capable myself). Of course, I had decided to go before I realised that the train service to Bournemouth would largely consist of rail-replacement buses that day, and I’m afraid I have learned from hours-long bitter experience to draw the line at that. But I was weirdly quite pleased to be forced into the driving seat for once.

My friends had a great race, we all had a nice chat, and my journeys there and back were uneventful. Even the parking was easy and I got quite a buzz from driving myself around, deciding which motorway service station to use and which of the several random routes the SatNav offered I should trust. A feeling of being in control perhaps, which is often not at all the case on public transport, and when Mr J and I travel together by car, he usually takes the wheel and I am just the co-pilot.

I had occasion to use the car again the following day – to collect a heavy box of printing from a small shop a few urban miles away. A much less enjoyable experience, especially where the parking was concerned. But all fine, and a sense of achievement perhaps that I can still manage to do this despite lack of practice.

You may be wondering why I’m banging on about all this. Mad old bat likes walking, quite likes public transport too, but finds she can still drive. So what?

Well, I can’t drive right now – because some a$£&h*@e has stolen my car. Our car. Parked and locked outside our house, keyless keys carefully stowed in a metal box away from the front door. No sign of broken glass, just a space where it had been left the night before. A somewhat unreal feeling.

It’s not been found. The police closed the case within four hours of my reporting it, and although the local community PCSO popped round a few days later (after a garden up the road was burgled) and chatted about security, there was no evident attempt to track down the perps. Apart from a brief excitement when another car was stolen from a nearby road (erm, not sure this is helping the value of our house – just as well we’re not selling) and recovered by the owners the very next day because they had a tracker in the car (yes, yes, lesson learned!) and Mr J leapt onto his motorcycle to check out the location from which it had been recovered, to no avail, the past ten days have taken on a somewhat tumbleweed vibe in the motoring department.

Of course, I have continued my usual walking existence. No Wheels on My Wagon, but I’m Still Rolling Along – and all that. But just knowing we can’t get in the car and go somewhere together is discombobulating, and the need to go through the mind-bending, hours-consuming and EXPENSIVE process of purchasing another one is a complete pain.

Don’t feel sorry for me though. Perspective has been restored in the most painful way today, in hearing – a heart-wrenching one line email – that a dear friend’s life partner has unexpectedly died.

This is not the first time I have ended a blog post with this kind of news and I suspect it won’t be the last.

Friends and family are everything. xx