Temperature : 4 degrees Celsius
Weather : partly cloudy with a few snow/sleet showers
Mood : post traumatic stress
After much debate and deliberation, logical economics won over sentimental ideals :- this morning, Mr Pig and Parissa waved goodbye to their beloved car.

Dark blue, BMW 330 coupe with beige leather seats. *sniff*
It had been such a good car, so trustworthy, sleek and beautiful ... and what a sweet, sweet engine! It was the only thing that made driving in London bearable.

It had been on ferries, on trains ...

...it had crossed misty highlands, circumnavigated lakes ...

... and it had fulfilled its mission to drive on the autobahns of Germany (the large numbers are MILES/hr, small numbers are KM/hr).
There was no denying that the car was much loved ... but Mr Pig's and Parissa's decision was based on the fact that it simply wasn't useful to have a car in London. One must spend time getting it serviced, repaired, worry about it being vandalised (as there is only street parking), worry incessantly about getting parking tickets and suffer the dual agonies of always driving a dirty car, and watching pigeon shit/tree sap being baked into the paintwork.

Here is one vandal caught red-handed writing obscenities on the rear windscreen ... is that snow or bird crap?
As an indicator of how often the car was used, it wasn't a problem when the fuel cap was jammed shut for 3 months. And apart from being of service to their friends (trips to and from airports, helping move house), Mr Pig and Parissa were rarely able to use the car for themselves in London.
For the hip pocket, it just wasn't worth paying 17GBP per day to have a car sitting on the street. So with great reluctance, Parissa made a call and arranged to have the car picked up at 10 o'clock this morning.
In preparation for the car's return, Mr Pig was told TWICE by the car company to make sure there was nothing left in the car that wasn't present originally. So, being a rather obsessive compulsive creature, Mr Pig went through the car with a fine toothed comb and removed everything that could be removed .. and did it all last night so she would be well prepared for the morning.
After staying awake most of the night to watch the 3.30am replay of the Olympic women's figure skating final, Mr Pig was suddenly struck at 8.00am with one thought :
"
Without the resident parking permit (so carefully removed last night), the car could get a fine!".
Rushing downstairs to check, her fears of seeing a plastic envelope on the windscreen were waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay superceded by seeing
no plastic envelope, no windscreen ... in fact, no car at all!!!!
First Mr Pig reassured herself that the car wasn't stolen and it had most likely been towed away by the parking attendants. But when this was confirmed by Westminster council, who then politely added that it would cost 200GBP to free the car from the "Car Pound", she began to wish that the car HAD been stolen.
A very flustered Mr Pig calculated she had only 1 hour to get the car back before it was due for pick up by the car company. Luckily the Car Pound was close by, though situated in the middle of a labrynthine carpark, underneath (!!) Hyde Park. From the carpark entrance one is forced to walk underground, along a dimly lit concrete corridor which is sooo long that were it not for the irregularly shaped urine puddles, a person could believe it was a hall of mirrors. Every 50m a sign "Car Pound ahead" reminds the forsaken individual of their final destination ... and so one keeps walking and walking, head bowing lower and lower at each sign ... on and on and on until they know they're walking
the walk of shame.
After exiting the horror-house corridor, one is forced to weave through the carpark towards a massive cage. The only entrance to the cage is via a payment office, where the 200GBP extortion must be handed over before one is pointed towards a one-way door, through which no light is visible. Walking into the darkness of the cage, one's eyes adjust until hundreds of cars in various states (some clamped, some stickered, others unharmed) become visible...all stolen by Westminster Council and held for ransom. The only way out is via a massive iron gate, controlled by the payment office guard who requires a wave and gritted-teeth smile before he'll press the "OPEN" button. And finally, for the finishing kick to the kidneys, the car park ticket given to the defeated individual is YELLOW and stamped "CAR POUND" ... and the carpark exit attendant makes sure his snicker is heard loud and clear.
In the end, Mr Pig made it back on time .. but couldn't help mulling over these few (ironic) points :-
- They gave up the car to save money .. but it ended up costing money.
- They gave up the car to stop worrying about parking hassles ... the car gets towed.
- The car just HAD to be towed away the very morning it was due for pick-up. Not in the 50 weeks before, not a week before, not even a day before.
- The pick-up company inspects for damage ... damage that could easily have been caused by being forcibly placed on a tow truck. .. and the Car Pound has big signs that say you can't claim for damages after leaving the site, despite it being so dark in the car park that a mobile light is required (and not sufficient) to inspect for damage.
- Trying to prevent problems by cleaning the car out ahead of time, actually caused problems.
- The previous night, Mr Pig had signed up for some medical experiments which pay 100GBP for blood donations. Parissa insisted that Mr Pig make recompense for her thoughtlessness.... so, the cost of losing the car will literally be paid with blood. Mr Pig's blood.
Sometimes life is just funny like that. Though Mr Pig seems to get more than her fair share of 'funny' stories. Anyone other than a die-hard athiest might start to feel persecuted!

Goodnight! Goodnight! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow....

... when I replace you with this cute little electric car!! (joking!! I love you man!)