Drive
This morning I took my car down to the garage to get some work done on it. Goodbye, leaky radiator. Farewell, cracked timing belt. Hasta la vista, worn left front CV boot, and several other odds and ends that I should spend my tax refund on before it gets frittered away on MST3K boxed sets and overpriced coffee.
I get the Golf fixed at a specialised euromobile place in Mosman Park, which, for those who don't know Perth, is a snooty western suburb full of law firm partners, Ladies Who Lunch and trust fund kids. The garage is run by a couple of chipper Swiss-Germans who know their Volkswagens inside and out and, judging by the five week waiting list for a booking, they're not short of work. However I can never go there without a sense of class vulnerability.
It's the other cars that do it, as I was reminded this morning. An immaculately restored Citroen DS parked out front. A gleaming black Mercedes saloon in the forecourt. A bright red Ferrari sitting up on a hoist, rumbling to itself as uniformed mechanics politely poke about underneath. It's like a showroom devoted to Conveyances Of One's Social and Economic Betters. Amidst these exquisitely maintained luxury cars, my eleven year old Golf, with a dent in the rear bumper and a week-old bird crap splattered on the bonnet, stood out like Anna-Nicole Smith at an embassy ball.
So with my Golf in for repairs, and my scooter still in the shop with a seized piston, I'm thrown onto the mercies of the Perth public transport system. Fool that I am, I thought that at 8.30 on a weekday morning, on one of the most important highways in the city, I wouldn't be waiting long for a bus. Ah, yes, insert rueful and bitter laugh here.
Instead of getting to work at a reasonable hour, I spent a pleasant THIRTY MINUTES sitting in the bus shelter, watching the perma-tanned trophy wives of Mosman Park lurching their Volvo XC90s and BMW X5s out of the nearby Muzz Buzz, in an apparently firm belief that it would be unthinkable for the proles not to get out of their way.
There were no fiery crashes, so maybe they're onto something.
I get the Golf fixed at a specialised euromobile place in Mosman Park, which, for those who don't know Perth, is a snooty western suburb full of law firm partners, Ladies Who Lunch and trust fund kids. The garage is run by a couple of chipper Swiss-Germans who know their Volkswagens inside and out and, judging by the five week waiting list for a booking, they're not short of work. However I can never go there without a sense of class vulnerability.
It's the other cars that do it, as I was reminded this morning. An immaculately restored Citroen DS parked out front. A gleaming black Mercedes saloon in the forecourt. A bright red Ferrari sitting up on a hoist, rumbling to itself as uniformed mechanics politely poke about underneath. It's like a showroom devoted to Conveyances Of One's Social and Economic Betters. Amidst these exquisitely maintained luxury cars, my eleven year old Golf, with a dent in the rear bumper and a week-old bird crap splattered on the bonnet, stood out like Anna-Nicole Smith at an embassy ball.
So with my Golf in for repairs, and my scooter still in the shop with a seized piston, I'm thrown onto the mercies of the Perth public transport system. Fool that I am, I thought that at 8.30 on a weekday morning, on one of the most important highways in the city, I wouldn't be waiting long for a bus. Ah, yes, insert rueful and bitter laugh here.
Instead of getting to work at a reasonable hour, I spent a pleasant THIRTY MINUTES sitting in the bus shelter, watching the perma-tanned trophy wives of Mosman Park lurching their Volvo XC90s and BMW X5s out of the nearby Muzz Buzz, in an apparently firm belief that it would be unthinkable for the proles not to get out of their way.
There were no fiery crashes, so maybe they're onto something.
posted by Blandwagon at 6:59 PM
1 Comments:
Blanders, it may be one of the most important highways in the city, but it's Mosman park! What may politely be referred to as "those who may use public transport" don't live there (heaven forfend!), so there's no need for public transport - except for those few buses allowed for the sake of providing a bit of "urban colour".
Need a lift?
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