The car

The time had finally arrived and we were getting a new car. Mother had told my sister and I so. Wow. A new car! Check us out. Well, actually, a used car. But never mind that - it would be new to us. I couldn't help but daydream for a moment as to what it could be. A sleek BMW? A grand Mercedes? OK, OK, stop with the wishful thinking. Be realistic, we weren't rich. Alright, so perhaps a nice Ford Mondeo? A Rover? An Escort? Something of that ilk.

Mother was getting us a car, no more getting the bus to the shops. From now on we would be driving to Aldi or Kwik Save. And after that, those happy halcyon drives we once enjoyed as a family would return once again. Simply glorious. Soon our mum would be driving with her children in the back smiling as we headed towards destinations such as Pound land or Cut-a-bill. The expedition possibilities were endless. Somebody had told my mum (apparently a garage tip off) about a car they thought was within her budget, that the car was a bargain, a steal. So, naturally, mother rubbed her hands with glee as she weighed up the pros and cons. This thorough contemplation probably took a few moments as my mum gave this tip off the green light and said she would take it. So my sister and I waited with bated breath to see what this car would be like. And on clear reflection on first seeing it I have to say my mouth opened like a greedy chubby child about to tuck into a triple cheese burger. (Yes, that wide).

The car was loud, a hardly inconspicuous shade of  canary yellow. Prehistoric and box like and the name of it I was soon to find out. The car was a Yugo. Ever heard of this make? Thought not. A Yugo with no MOT or road tax for that matter. Which were obtained shortly after. If you happen to be under the age of 88 then there is a strong possibility that you probably, definitely, wouldn't have ever heard of this type of motor vehicle. From the look on my mothers face she was happy, pleased as punch with her newly acquired purchase. Something that was within her 'price range'. So, after a few seconds of composing myself the obligatory question had to be asked to my mum. (Whilst attempting to hide my severely unimpressed state) I proceeded with a curt: "How much did you pay for it, mama? Without the slightest hesitation she happily replied: "£30!" Beaming with utter satisfaction, rendering a young me to look dumbfounded at the car as I began to contemplate my life ending as I knew it. Did I hear that correctly? £30?? For a car?! I had toys more expensive! My mountain bike was more expensive! Things didn't make sense. I needed to lie down. They say during your life you will encounter situations and challenges that ultimately make you a stronger person. Looking back on this uncomfortable period I have to say that that adage more than rings true. Sigh... It really does. Every time we had to go somewhere in that car was a trial for me. A terrible trial even Oscar  Pistorius would wince at.

 

The chance of seeing somebody that I could possibly know was too much to take. I was consumed with dread and trepidation when we drove up and  down the high street. I would feel slightly more at ease under the blanket of night. However, not so much. The car was the colour of Big Bird. In the day the  potential chance of mother stalling or breaking  down in a busy road and having people looking at us played on my mind. She had paid £30, remember. It could have happened. It should have happened. So on this alone the car should have packed in as soon as she placed her foot on the accelerator. But to my frustration it didn't. It was a robust and resilient little thing. Every time I saw somebody that was from my school I would slope down in my seat. Contorting my back so that they couldn't see my utterly embarrassed face. To this day I don't believe my mum fully appreciated what she was doing to her poor children. And how my carefully constructed street credibility was plummeting every time I climbed into that overt yellow box!  Nobody in the 90's drove Yugo's. Nobody! But us. How I  implored the car (in my head) to not start so I could just walk or catch the bus but mother was having none of it, "Get in!" I had no choice but to do as I was told. 

This was the period in which my sister and I liked watching the old, cheesy Bond films. The ones in which Jimmy's car had an ejector seat. To  tell you the truth I often wished there was one in this Yugo. A button that I could press that would eject (or rather blast) me high and away from this car of mortification. But for £30 no such thing was available. Regardless of all these less than pleasant memories I have to give some credit to my mother, she was not content in just owning this cheapo car - she wanted to improve it. (For it's modicum price of course it needed fixing). In a time before Pimp My Ride was a commonly known premise my mother had designs on enhancing our family whip. Not quite to the levels of a wannabe pimp from LA - but perhaps something that might have slightly impressed Xhibit. Maan! I just wanted her to get rid of the Yugo, but no, she went ahead and enrolled on a female car maintenance course alongside other women who presumably were in cars worth a lot more than £30 and learnt how to fix things and stuff. So that was very admirable looking back. But when you are an irrational child your mind can often be clouded with the superficial and frivolous. Moving on, my mum even told me that the other women there didn't have a clue about cars. (Hence why they were enrolled on the course) but what I think she meant was that these women were foolish pouting  bimbos. I can just imagine my mum pulling up on the first day in the Yugo ready to learn. Oh crumbs.

However much that car embarrassed me. And make no bones about it it sure did. My mum made the most of her investment. We only had it for three (torturous) months before my shrewd mother sold it for a whopping £350. The buyer I can't remember, but I wouldn't be surprised if  it had been another cold-blooded parent intent on torturing their children. If this was the case then from the bottom of my heart I feel for those kids, I really do. 

Demola, TCC