The One With Character

 

There is a rattle of my letterbox.

I have a friend who sometimes posts notes through and so I rush towards the stairs thinking it is her. But there is no sign of a note.

Then I suspect it’s yet another junk mail leaflet, and I’m about to give hell to whoever ignored my polite notice asking that none should ever be posted through my letter box. But there is no sign of any leaflet.

Instead there is the outline of a man just visible through the glass.

He’s a neighbour of mine. One of the few to know my name.

He tells me he’s just hit my car and, “Can you come and have a look?”

“Oh no, not my car,” I moan, “Just a minute.”

I close the door on him while I get my keys. I’m imagining the worst: a buckled front, twisted metal, a complete write off.

He is quiet and apologetic as he points out the damage. It’s a scratch about a foot long on the driver’s side right at the front. I can see black and blue paint.

“I had to pull over,” he explains. “A car that was coming up the other way gave me no where else to go. I’ll pay for the repair. I’ll clean it all up.”

I laugh.

I point out the bird poo on the bonnet that has worked like acid through the paintwork. I show him the two deeply etched lines down the side that another neighbour, I was told, gouged out with his keys. I point out the dent in the bonnet when at almost zero miles an hour I rolled into a tree trunk thinking I was rolling only into a bush.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I tell him not to worry. That it gives my car character. That it is nothing to worry about. That the car is old. That it has done nearly 100,000 miles. That it is not worth repairing. I tell him not to worry about it. In fact I say it was probably my fault for parking too far away from the curb. But when I check I discover to my surprise that this time I have parked the wheels flush against the kerbstone.

Then I thank him for telling me, and tell him not to worry about it again, but he is sorry and troubled.

“It gives my car character,” I tell him. I then also tell him that I would have said exactly the same thing even if the car was brand new.

He is sad, quiet and apologetic and I know that his wife will feel upset for him too.

It is only when I get back inside and then make a cup of tea that I start to think about his car. How much damage did my car do to it? I then feel sorrier for him, for I know these neighbours are very proud of their cars. They clean and polish them lovingly, and then they tinker with their insides and with their frills and bonnets.

But I have no idea which one is his car, or what make it is, or even what colour it is. He would be shocked if ever he heard this.

I only notice and love my car. The one with character!