They were repainting the roof of my local Spar yesterday. A freshly opened 20L tin of terracotta paint fell from the roof and bounced off my tiny shiny pretty pearly silver two-week-old Yaris as I pulled into the parking bay, about three seconds after I had mused on how lucky I had been to get one right by the entrance. Damn you Asphaltia, daughter of Satan, Succubus, Whore of Babylon.
Various men with glinting murderous eyes gathered round the startlingly novel cowhide-jackrussel paint job, and hungrily offered to pummel the young roof painter, as though I looked incapable of it. I declined and laughed and took the hand of poor Jaques, the painter, who had come down from the roof and was crying real tears and shaking from top to bottom, because in that moment I could see clearly, in slow motion even, and I was just so happy for him that I’m not a murderous man. If you’re going to spill roof paint all over a brand new car, and you have a choice as to which car, pick mine ok? I tried to explain to Jaques how he should see this like winning the lotto - that what happened was quite literally once in a lifetime ‘cos it’s my first brand new car and I won’t ever have another. He must have misunderstood because he went even paler, sobbed even louder, edged towards the group of murderous men and tried to take cover in their midst.
The dent in the roof from the tin is like an exclamation mark. Serves me right I suppose, for getting all inexplicably fond of and vain about a stupid car. I don’t even like cars. Let this be a lesson to me.
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