Reverse

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So, just what the heck is it with car manufacturers and their useless innovations? Ok so I now take cup holders and electric seats for granted. And whilst I might whinge a bit about Nigel SatNav, I wouldn’t be without his patronising tones for all the Toblerone in Stansted.

Admittedly there are some modern additions to motoring that make being the family taxi and queen of the roadtrip more palatable. But why, oh why, do you feel compelled to mute the sound system when I reverse? Ffs. What IS that all about? There I am enjoying a gleeful musical moment with the nippers, at least one of us rocking some great air guitar (well, not the responsible driver, obvs) and singing at the top of our voices, when it suddenly…stops. Not only does this add to the children’s natural anxiety that mummy might be heard tunelessly banging out a bit of Blondie at the top of her (vocally challenged) voice, but it just, well, spoils the magic of the moment.

What, exactly, do they think is going to happen? That I might turn my head to look behind only to be hit by a wall of sound that blinds me to other cars/trees/pedestrians? Or that the music, left at its rightful volume (loud), might render me deaf to the cries of help from the dear innocent old lady I’ve just carelessly mown down? Or that I could be so busy doing the bloody Macarena that my ability to parallel park may be seriously compromised?

Ffs (again). I reckon it’s a bloke thing. Guys designing for guys. Guys who can’t multitask. And who demand useless bragging rights for shiny but shit bits of ‘essential’ technology they have no idea how to operate. Take the husband, for example. He was thrilled by all the whizzy, so-called clever specifications on his new company car. Pored over the brochure for weeks, excitedly jabbing at the page and insisting I ooh and aah along with him at functionality it had never occurred to him til then (or me, ever) that he might need. The automatic headlight dimmer sent him into paroxysms of joy and took centre stage at many a family debate. But just how long did it take him to get it working? Weeks *she wails*, bloody weeks. And in the meantime, we just flicked the lights on and off. WITH OUR OWN HANDS.

So, please. Stop ruining my fun. All these car ads promising ‘the drive of your life’ and promoting the exhilaration of the open road. I don’t need your bloody high speed broadband connection, or your sunglasses holder, or your goddam automatic headlight dimmer. More often than not I’m dashing from school gate to sports hall, and then to a ballet lesson, football pitch or supermarket. All within a couple of miles of my home. And am usually more concerned whether I have the right number of children in the car at each leg of the journey than whether I can possibly move my finger a few millimetres to flick a stick. Or turn the volume down (if I must). So, if you want to innovate, give me shit that might actually be moderately useful.

How about:

1) An automatic people counter that not only lets you know how many children made it into the car, but also whether you have the right nippers (and whether they’ve all remembered their school bags/sports kit/musical instruments)?

2) Food resistant upholstery that automatically obliterates any crumb, chunk or dribble of in-car nourishment that doesn’t actually make it into the recipient’s mouth, which is usually most of it (‘it’ being a heady assortment of vile food products that all curiously take on the odour of a dog poo rolled in vomit after just a week of in-car putrification)?

3) A noise-cancelling cocoon for the driver so she doesn’t have to hear, respond to or arbitrate the million fraternal altercations that take place in the other seats (and, whilst you’re at it, the ability to deliver a quick electric shock warning current to any given passenger seat would also help here)?

Now those are innovations I’d welcome. Music to my ears.

Filth

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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.