So, this weekend I decided it was time. To clean the car. For at least three weeks the children have been alternately claiming it to stink of sick/poo/dead animals. And gagging as they get in. Not one to cave in too easily I’ve let it ride (or, rather, let them ride it out) for a little longer than Social Services would find reasonable. But there have been several, erm, incidents that have finally pushed me over the edge of shame and into action.
First there was the trip to the garage to get a new tyre. Apparently I needed a ‘locking wheel nut’ to get the defective tyre off. Wtf is that, I hear you cry. Good bloody question. Apparently it’s some kind of security device that prevents people stealing those oh-so-coveted jalopy wheels. I mean, criminals want to half-inch the tyres off seven-seat given-up-on-life boxes on wheels? Really? Anyway. I uncomfortably concluded my conversation with the man on the desk, realising with a sinking feeling that the item they were looking for *may* have been the alien item I *possibly* put in the bin a couple of weeks before. Not wanting to look like a total twat I played dumb, only to step outside and unexpectedly find no less than six hairy-arsed mechanics ripping my car apart looking for the bloody thing. All of them with looks of disgust on their faces, either at my lack of vehicle hygiene or the array of furry ex-food items they encountered underneath the seats, in the cup holders and squashed into the upholstery. Bad car owner.
Then there was the evening I offered to transport four lovely ladies to the pub for a night out. In their lovely glam going out gear. Ah. The shame as they stepped through oceans of shit to find a seat. And the smell that infused our journey. And the speed with which they exited the shit wagon (which was nothing to do with my driving; really, I was thirsty!) Bad friend.
The straw that broke my iron resolve to stay foul was the ‘back to school’ moment when it suddenly seemed ridiculous to have washed, freshly laundered and re-kitted my children and issued dire warnings about looking smart – only to find at least one of them had sat on a forgotten chocolate button and skipped into the new school year looking like they’d shat themselves. Bad mother.
That’s when I decided it was time. Assuming the usual position for housework, I installed the long-suffering mites in front of Wallace and Gromit – and ventured car-wards with Hoover, antibacterial spray and bin bags. 90 minutes (and a heap of cursing, retching and glowing) later; the inside of the car, at least, looked like a new pin. And the air within was starting to clear from green fog to magic tree clarity.
Only now I’m fretting. Will I be disappointed tomorrow to find it resuming its distinct miasma of re-puked dog sick wrapped in a turd? Will just one in-car breakfast re-carpet the now-visible floor? And, with potty training in full throttle, will Pudding unleash a fresh new fat one to return the gag-wagon to its former odorous charm?
So, with uncharacteristic despair, I ask myself why I bother. Like all my good intentions, the benefit and the intent only last until the next crisis. Which is never more than a heartbeat away.