From the moment that Z and I began our romance I knew that one day the moment would come to let go of the car. A moment that regardless of preparation I have been dreading.
He'd been driving the metallic blue brute for as long as I've known him, and we'd developed something of a sentimental relationship the car and I. Although somewhat looked down on in the social hierarchies of England, the Ford Mondeo has nonetheless served us well indeed and I have many happy memories attached to it.
It was in this car that I and the man I'd end up marrying shared our first kiss (in the parking lot of Sainsbury's no less, oh erotica); it was with this car that we travelled around England (including one memorable trek from Bristol to London and then all the way back to Bristol again because we'd realised we'd forgotten house keys there). It was this car which was our tool of migration from and into four different habitats; it faithfully lugged shoes and books and building materials; it put up with our piques of negligence, and consumed petrol frugally. It was in this car that we drove to our wedding (running low on petrol, the roof splattered with pigeon shit).
Regardless of dents and scrapes and that incident with the bumper I have loved the car with undiminished devotion. I have washed its windows, polished its outer shell, petted it fondly on the glove compartment. I have showered it with affection and discarded sweet wrappers.
But now it's time to let it go. We've switched off its life support, declined to renew its roadtax, or invest into the minor repairs it would take to pass its MOT. And the glorious creature that I have loved dearly now awaits an uncertain future on ebay.
Fare thee well blue thunder, fare thee well. Roar for me sometimes, in your long sleep.