Sentenced to Death

I must say, it's an interesting experience to pass the sentence of death.

And no, I'm not referring to the liver transplant claim we rejected the other day at work, although that will undoubtedly have a similar effect sooner or later.

No, this was on something that I loved, and that's provided me with many happy years of entertainment. Despite this, I forced myself to consider the issue in the dispassionate and emotionless manner for which I am somewhat renowned, and reached the correct decision. I stood firm against the raging tsunami of sentimentality that would have swamped a man of lesser emotional resolve, and came to the unavoidable conclusion. Within a few minutes of discussing the issue, I had made my decision, and turned my back on the fate of the condemned, immune to its cries for mercy.

My decision would not be revoked.

The Corolla must die.

Yes, that's right folks. You heard it here first. I am officially deregistering my car, and it is to be scrapped. Well, to be honest, I'd much rather it be dumped at my grandfather's farm, along with the 50 odd other ruined cars that have been owned by my relatives, but the old man - he of Civil War travel fame - is the executioner to my judge and jury on this one, and it is his decision as to how and where the axe shall fall.

Seriously though, it's the right decision. I mean, it had pretty much had it. It was by far the crappiest car amongst the various four wheel machines owned by my friends - I for the life of me, am struggling to think of a shittier, more underpowered and veritable bomb of a car than mine, at least amongst the people I know. So, rather than pay for another six months of rego and third party for a car that might get used once a month, it's being consigned to the junkyard.

I bought it 5 and a half years ago, for the princely sum of $2500, and have chalked up about 90000 kilometres on it, so it's not like I didn't get my money's worth. It survived the perils and pitfalls that come with delivering pizzas for Dominos Strathpine (unlike it's predecessor - fucking drink drivers), it survived Laura cracking the head gasket, it shouldered the burden of my Tuba, Meakin and a carton of beer many times (and frequently all at the same time) and never complained once, although it had a nasty habit of incontinence when it came to power steering fluid.

It even survived me backing it into Dad's Landcruiser, and I managed to convince him the resulting dent on my car (yeah, like the Landcruiser took damage) was a result of someone hitting in a supermarket for over two years before I 'fessed up.

The car's given me a lot of memories. It's been on coast trips, Samford drives, LAN's, band excursions, many a road trip, drive throughs and christ knows what else. I think it's greatest achievement was when it negotiated Mount Glorious up and down on the way back from Lake Wivenhoe. My greatest achievement occurred at the same time, which was that I didn't garrot Alex Maltby on the same trip, who was riding beside me.

And now, it's time has come. Farewell.

*Calls for a minute's silence*

*Fidgets and looks at watch*

Well, close enough. With that said, I shall conclude by giving you a sneak peak of what car I have my eye on when I eventually return from this beleagured isle...


The Honda Integra Type R.

Meakin isn't the only one who can buy an oddball car.