EMISSIONS:I'M FEELING more than a tad emotional as I write this. My conscience is doing cartwheels. For Homer, my beloved 1990 BMW estate, is gone. I have committed the ultimate betrayal and sold him, rejecting him for a younger model. From now on, just call me Madonna, writes KILIAN DOYLE
It wasn’t easy. Almost three months passed between my deciding to break the emotional bond I have for Homer in favour of the peace of mind, fuel economy and safety of his replacement, the Millstone, and actually finding a buyer.
Homer was advertised on the internet for ages with nary a phone call. I was flummoxed. He was a much sought-after model, exceptionally handsome, went like stink and I was asking buttons for him. What was wrong with these people?
Of course, in that time I got 87 e-mails from scammers, including an “Anglican bishop” living in Manchester who wanted it for his wife in Spain and another halfwit who e-mailed me from the same account six times using different names – all offering in pidgin English to buy it sight unseen for over the asking price.
And all I had to do was wire them money for the shipping company that would give me a bank draft when they collected my car. How could I possibly lose?
I have to give credit to one of my tormentors, however. He told me Homer – who is red – had been picked to appear on a Coca-Cola billboard in Heathrow airport. All I had to do was pay him a finder’s fee and he’d arrange everything. Top marks for trying, Mr John Smith.
Finally, €100 in ads later, I got a bite. Mad keen, so he was. Possibly because I’d cut the price by a third. I could tell he knew I was desperate. Barely containing his excitement, he arranged to drive up from Limerick for a viewing the next day.
As with most things in my life, it didn’t go according to plan. His mate, possibly a mechanic, hopped in. Revved the engine. Splutter. Cough. Splutter. “I think the problem might be this,” said the mate, pointing at the petrol pouring out from under the car.
Oops. They left. Unimpressed.
I spent the following weekend on my hands and knees and, despite having hamfists and the mechanical nous of a slug, located the problem – a perished flexihose – and rectified it.
The buyer came back the next day. As I said, mad keen. He bought Homer without hesitation.
As he drove off, I felt a huge wrench. I loved that car. We’d shared a lot. I’d sung my lungs out, slept, eaten, laughed and cried in Homer. I’d driven my newborn son home from the hospital in the car and cleaned his sister’s barf off the upholstery.
We’d done countless pre-dawn blitzkrieg surf missions across the country. We’d even towed a trapped Isuzu Trooper and its very embarrassed owner out of a muddy Sligo ditch. Homer and I had cackled at that for days afterwards.
Best of all, other than the heater exploding in a muck of steam, the exhaust falling off, the steering rack nearly snapping, the radiator bursting and the fuel pump failing, leaving my wife and kids stranded in the middle of a busy junction at rush hour, he’d never given me a minute’s trouble.
The pain of separation was softened slightly by knowing he was being entrusted to a deserving new keeper.
I liked the buyer muchly, and felt terrible sorry for him when he revealed he was training to be an architect. I took some solace from the fact that while he may not have a job in his chosen field in the near future, at least he’ll have the consolation of owning a cracking little car that’ll put a smile on his face every time he drives it. Well wear, as they say.