Vauxhall and I

I blame my parents.

From the age of about 9, I’ve lived in a family of Vauxhall cars. First, it was a gold Cavalier, registration TRG 64 Y (funny how you remember those things). Following that came a metallic blue-grey Cavalier, whose registration plate I’ve forgotten. Following that was a metallic blue-grey Senator. It was at this point that I left home and, while that’s a coincidence, I feel I was well within my rights to protest.

A couple of years back, my dad retired and so the rusting executive saloon had to go, replaced by… a Vauxhall Zafira. It is a truly awful car.

Just sitting in the Zafira as a passenger, it makes you feel sea-sick. It is a car entirely devoid of redeeming features. Until recently, however, I thought the Zafira was as low as my parents would stoop. I was wrong. To go along with it, they’ve now replaced my mum’s trusty, zesty, characterful Cinquecento with… a Vauxhall Agila! Oh the humanity!

There’s a small set of cars that you’d look at and think: “Only doddery old pensioners could possibly think that’s a car worth buying.” Until a couple of weeks ago, I never thought of my parents as being old. Now, however, they’re forcing me to see them in a different light. I’m starting to think I should be talking to them about what kind of funeral they want. Maybe I should be looking into nursing homes?

Perhaps more importantly, though, are these people really my parents?