by Yesterday I had a look at the bright blue 2006 Peugeot 307. A diesel, which I’ve never had before. Diesels get a terrible press from all the ghastly shite they pump into the atmosphere. The guy I met outside the cash-and-carry was young. It was registered in his mum’s name – she was born in 1973. It only had 133,000 km on the clock – I hope that’s genuine – and both the car and its vendor were the least dodgy I’ve come across so far. It had air con, an absolute must here, plus a load of fancy computery stuff that looked beyond me even though I’m sure it’s already old hat – every car I’ve ever owned before was built last century. Its warrant (or ITP as they call it here) runs out in July. So today I bit the bullet. It was going for €2250, I offered €2000, he bumped that up by €100 and we had a deal.
This morning I met him back at the cash-and-carry, armed with the 21 green euro notes I’d just withdrawn from the bank. (He said he’d accept either euros or lei; I had €2800 in my euro account – that I rarely use – after buying this flat and receiving the odd payment for lessons with the German girl.) On the way I met the mother of the 12-year-old boy I’d be seeing this afternoon. I was early and nervous as anything. I popped into the store to use the loo. Near the entrance were a variety of football tables for sale. I think my parents still have the one I had as a kid. I wondered why table football always uses a 2-5-3 formation. Then he turned up and we drove to the village hall in Sânandrei where I met his mother – they made copies of my residence permit and I had paperwork to sign – and blow me down (as my mother would say) I saw the mother of my 12-year-old student again. What on earth are you doing here? The business at the village hall was only the start of all the bewildering bureaucracy I’ll have to contend with now that I’ve bought a car. This took nearly an hour, then I was free to go.
But my god, It had been seven years since I last properly drove, and I was in a completely new car. The Sânandrei bit wasn’t too bad – take it nice and slowly, no rush – then I hit the city. Roundabouts and lane changes and bugger me, can I even do this again? I got hooted at just once. I wish I had an L-plate on the back (here it’s an exclamation mark) or a great big neon poo to tell everyone just how out of practice and shit-scared I was. For some of the way I was behind a car whose number plate was TM 13 DIE. When I finally parked just round the corner from my block, I breathed one hell of a sigh of relief.
In theory this will be good, and I’ve always been a fan of French cars after living in France in 2000-01 and seeing all manner of shapely jalopies on the roads, but driving again will take some getting used to and I’ve just injected another layer of life admin which I could do without. I won’t get the chance to drive again until Sunday because I’ve got a packed schedule of lessons until then. And no I won’t drive to lessons in the city. Not yet anyway, that’s for sure.
Last night I watched bits of Blues’ home game against Middlesbrough. In a far cry from their win over Sunderland last month in front of a full house, the crowd – sparser this time – sounded nervous. Panic had set in; the spectre of relegation with a capital R was hanging over the place. Middlesbrough scored the only goal – a very good one – in the 16th minute, while Blues were dire from what I saw. Since Tony Mowbray’s serious illness forced him to step down, the stuffing has been knocked out of the team. Keep playing like they did last night, or the two games before that, and they will be relegated.
