"Ooh, you complete hypocrite!" said an avowed cyclist colleague when I told her. "I thought you were Ireland's only anti-car motoring hack? You're no better than the rest of them, you traitor. And a Beemer to boot? I dunno what's got into you at all . . ."
Hmm. What can I say? I'm a fickle tart. I've taken the plunge and bought myself a car. That's it in the picture, a sixth-hand BMW 1990 316i, with just under 85,000 miles on the clock, to be exact.
She (yes, it takes the feminine pronoun given its effects on my psyche) is an absolute beauty, even if I say so myself. I'm not quite at the stage of carrying photos around in my wallet, but I'm close.
She cost me less than my now sadly neglected sleek red racing bicycle, which I bought second-hand five years ago. The insurance was another matter entirely. It's a sad reflection when you tell someone how much your policy cost (the price of a round-the-world plane ticket, in my case) and they reckon you got a reasonable deal. "That's actually not that bad . . ." Despite my new toy, I haven't given up completely on my intended's Suzuki Swift.
Occasionally, the Suzuki looks sidelong at me, accusingly, like I'm an adulterous husband who's left her for a more curvaceous model. The Suzuki was never the most glamorous machine - she just put her head down and trundled along, never complaining, never giving a moments' trouble.
But I loved her unconditionally, like a parent loves a child, no matter how ugly, stupid and untalented.
Despite being about as mechanically minded as a post-lobotomy Luddite halibut, I ran through a little snag list, which threw up some minor quandaries. First off, do I really need a lockable petrol cap? Are there still people out there who siphon fuel? I mean, who would risk serious internal injury, not to mention the halitosis and the tooth decay a mouthful of petrol would give you?
Perhaps I should be more concerned about having a pound of siúcra put into my tank by some irate taxi-driver or courier, now that they know what I look like.
And I'll need a new jack - the yoke in the boot looks like it would snap if it tried to lift my cat off the couch. (Admittedly, said beast does weigh about four stone.) At least it's got plenty of headroom - now that my horrible secret of being a banana-headed freak is exposed for all to see.
As for entering the dark ranks of the Beemer-driving set, I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional. I accept I may get some withering stares - she is, after all, a low-slung beast with big fat alloy wheels and an engine that emits a roar like a souped-up Honda Civic. It's got boy racer written all over it, albeit boy racer with a bit of class.
Still, I don't care what people think. To quote everyone's favourite German pessimist philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer: "Every reproach can hurt only to the extent it hits the mark. Whoever actually knows that he does not deserve such a reproach can and will confidently treat it with contempt."
I know I'm not a thug behind the wheel. Although, if I'm brutally honest, I did feel a certain stirring of my loins and tingling down the back of my neck the first time I heard her purr, like a post-orgasmic panther.
Here's hoping I'm strong enough to resist being lured onto the rocks by her Siren song.
All I need now is a name for her. Suggestions gratefully received and considered.
