I can say this much, hire cars are pretty fun. When you’re driving one of these super generic motors it gives you a wee glimpse into what it must be like to have nice things that aren’t covered in chocolate stains and Peppa Pig stickers, and you always feel a wee bit worried that when they come to pick it up and evaluate any damages they can try and pin on you with extra charges, they’ll find the multitude of lumpy ‘Nose Goblins’ you’ve discreetly wiped under the passenger seat during your short time running the car.
That is, when they bother their arse to come and collect their hire car, unlike the company we’ve used who’ve decided instead to hide under their desks when the phone rings, or run around with their fingers in their ears when the email server pings.
“Please fill in this questionnaire, how happy are you with our service?” Sadly, there was no option to send them a photo of my distended pooping chute in reply to that email.
So because of this, our driveway is now rammed together with three cars, and as you can see with the aid of my handsome assistant in the photo above, the access to my Focus is a little bit hindered, especially if like me you’re a six foot plus hunk of chunk with the limb coordination of a sock puppet. So this morning at 5am I had to attempt, in the pitch dark, to get into my car without denting either The Roobs’ car or the hire car to my left, whilst also not making too much noise in the process and wake Roobs and The Destroyer.
15 minutes. 15 bloody minutes of climbing through the passenger side door and contorting my body in such ways it would bring a Chinese Gymnast to tears of envy. I’m pretty sure I had my face in the passenger foot well at one point, and I’m considering pressing charges with the police over the inappropriate caressing of my lower colon by the gear stick throughout the traumatic event.
The highlight of the struggle was at one point having my arse pressed up against the windscreen as I tried to dislocate my spine to help with my positioning, right as someone drove into the close and did a three point turn, their full beams shining off my rage-vibrating posterior.
I might try and find out who they were and slip a flyer under their door later with the phone number for The Samaritans on it. You know that seeing my tooshy pressed up against a window at five in the morning is going to give even the hardiest soul a certain level of PTSD..