Dear Car,

Recently you’ve started squeaking at me in a most unpleasant manner and I want to explain why this is unacceptable.

I want to make it clear I chose to have you.  I live half a mile from a train station, or a gentle 10 mile cycle to work.  If I’d chosen to walk or cycle every day then I’d look great in a bikini, and not like International Lard Ltd tried to hide a years’ worth of produce under three handkerchiefs.

In the time I’ve owned you I’ve met your demands; a new MOT here, a set of tyres there, insurance, your constant demand for petrol.  Without all of these I’d be considerably financially better off.  I’ve purchased the latest ‘must-have’ battery for you, spent hours unscrewing your oil warning light when it glows and topping you up with Lidl own brand oil…because I want the best for you.

What do I get in return?  When I put dogs in the boot you don’t stop their hair getting everywhere.  Both times I’ve hoovered you you’ve got covered in mud and Mars bar wrappers within weeks.  I’ve nagged and nagged about the receding paint-line on your wheel arches, but if anything they’re rustier than ever.  Why do you do this to me, you ungrateful piece of shit?

You don’t even have an iPhone connector!  Tomorrow morning I’m going to have to manually set your clock to GMT!  All the hours we’ve spent together on the road between home and work, home and dog-walking park, home and the supermarket that’s half a mile away and you can’t even learn when the bastard clocks go back!

Well, we’re done.  I’m going to get a 4th-hand Porsche with an overly powerful engine and alloy wheels that haven’t been twatted off the sides of the single-track bridge in Prudhoe 500 times!

I know you can’t understand this, your early 21st Century engine-management computer is far too primitive, but I hope one day you get an AI upgrade that allows you to feel the shame a guilt that’s coming to you.

Love,

Your driver