So, Funny Story

Picture if you will the missus and I riding in our newly rented Fiat Bravura (or some such, not a bad little car...unlike the other rental this one had a boot you could fit the world in) on our way to Anfield to the Memorial. She's driving cos I choose not to when I can (here or there) so the only thing you've got to wrap your mind around is that she's on the side I would usually be on and viceversa, right.

"We need to find somewhere to park," she says.

"Yeah, okay there's carparks about I'm sure," say I calmly and cooly (natch.) "There's one over there Five Pounds."

Its a dirt lot right with a few cars parked and a boy and a coupla girls sitting talking next to the Sharpie on cardboard sign that says something like "Park 5 Pounds (but with they symbol, yeah.) Now I'd rather give my money to the young scallie than some faceless whatever.

"Okay," says the missus hands gripped on the wheel, glint in her eye. "Do you think we can get in that way?"

"No," says I plain and simple. Its a bit of a pit sort of lot, if you get my meaning. There's a sidewalk and all that and its on the corner. Looking at the cars that are there and where the kid is sitting, mixed with the fact that I can see where it is graded on the other street. I take all this in an instant...I've already voiced my opinion when I feel the Fiat sway towards what is NOT the entrance.

Now I just had a thought, maybe I've been mishearing the missus all these years. Maybe instead of asking questions she's actually making a statement. You know, I may hear, "Do you want to...?" "Do you think...?" etc when actually she's saying "You think..." "You want to..." It would be the perfect explanation really, cos it always seems to be my fault even when I have obviously said, "No."

Not sure but its a thought, yeah.

Back to the story...

"No," I say and grip whatever I can as we swerve into what could be very, very bad.

Sure enough there's a crunch and a long deep scrape as we bump into this pit that has become this kid's carpark. As we are shaken wildly about the car I can imagine sparks flying and things falling off. A trail of parts going from the curb to wherever the car dies. The kid he jumps up, the girls giggle and he runs over.

I've gone like a ghost...pale, eyes wide, mouth hanging down, and white knuckles grasping for life. The missus, yeah she's got this wild look in her eyes that says anything between, "Wow, we're alive" to "I might've shat meself." Eyes glinting, strange deranged smile playing across her mouth. The kid slides up to the car in a cloud of dust and debris. The missus rolls (Is there another word for that now that most car windows don't actually roll down? Food for thought...feel free to post thoughts in the comments below.)

"Oh," says the young scallie. I see his look mirrors something between my terror and the missus insanity. "Yer Fekin Mad, you!"

This kid is going to go far, serious master of understatement and with the ability to suss out people with only a glance and a bit of crazy driving, he's gonna be alright.

"The las' guy who di tha'," he says sticking his head almost all the way into the car. I think he might have wanted to check and see if there was any blood or gore plastered all over the interior of the car. "He tore the 'ole undercarriage off his, yeah."

Pulled back from my near death experience I have to smile and nod at the boy. "You don't know the half of it la'." is all I can think.

No the car to my utter shock had not left the trail of flotsam and jetsom behind it. In fact there wasn't even a scratch (showing) on it. When we came back there wasn't even the puddle of vital fluid laying underneath, soaking in the ground that I expected. So yeah the Fiat Brava (whatever) good car, yeah.

"Yer fekin mad, you!" that's me wife.

Cheers,
g