We went to town today. Never easy for either of us. The Pick-up was fatalistic, I guess. Not really his problem should he suffer a mechanical failure, he just sits there in a most unashamed manner sneering at the younger ones, tries to appear rugged rather than unwashed when something sporty flits by. Then when that doesn't work he drops the odd hint about how important it is for a vehicle to thoroughly vet the Title Holder before embarking upon a relationship. For any one who might be curious a Title is proof of ownership in the more regimented parts of the world, it's a piece of paper basically and nowhere upon it is written The Charter of Vehicle Rights, which if there was such a thing could include "Wash my surfaces at least once every ten years."
When we reached town, we got nearly twelve gallons of gasoline for his tank and
we got eight gallons for those internal combustion engines that spend much of
their year sheltering from the elements inside the barn, a very wimpy lifestyle,
but as I have explained, what with the Mice and stuff it's kind of scary in
there and no one really wants to endure the ordeal of being forced to raise
someone else's children in their manifold. On the trip home we both suddenly
found ourselves possessed by some kind of demonic force. The straight road was
empty of fellow road users and the next thing we both knew we were doing fifty
eight miles an hour. And I can tell you this much, if I'd had a camera I'd have
taken a photograph to document the moment. Fortunately Better Angels prevailed
and we quickly returned to that civilized pace which so often irritates the more
satanic of my fellow Title Holders.