Girls With Filthy Cars

Yesterday, my dearest Brown-Eyed-Girl found a mouse living in the glove compartment of her car.

This is not a shock to me, and I suspect, neither was it to her.

Brown-Eyes and me belong in the same car-owner category: Girls With Filthy Cars

You know the sort, we’ve all met them, generous with offering lifts and cheerfully late, with the fuel gauge permanently on empty, the GWFC will storm up to you, music blaring, yakking away on their mobile phone and shout at you to “just climb in”. At which point you will contemplate the mountain of junk in front of you and wonder where, exactly, to sit. There will usually be a dog of some description, either lurking about, leering at you and letting off farts or just the evidence of one; a layer of dog hair, dried slobber and a deeply entrenched smell of wet dog. Crisp packets galore, bottles of drink rolling about, magazines, horse-rugs, at least twenty packets of cigarettes, lighters that don’t work, lots of unopened post in ominous brown envelopes, a variety of half-eaten but unidentifiable items of food and practically a whole wardrobe of clothes. And lots of carrier bags.

As a GWFC myself, I always wonder what the problem is. “Wimp” is my first thought, when I see someone gingerly stepping into my vehicle, or notice their eyes watering when the dog has let one rip. People have actually refused to get in my car (their loss, I am an excellent driver) or insist on hanging out of the window for the duration of the journey because of the ‘smell’. We then lurch off, stamping on the accelerator and brakes with equal enthusiasm as the unsuspecting passenger searches in vain amongst the debris for a seatbelt.

I used to drive a Fiat Panda, which was often referred to as my Hairdryer. And I guess it was very much like driving a hairdryer; small, compact and blowing a hoolie. It was so full of stuff, I could only fit myself in it, although my mothers labrador used to perch perilously on top of everything with a nervous look in his eyes. A policeman pulled me over in the hairdryer once, because he saw me leave the pub carpark and wanted to breathalise me. I passed the test, which disappointed him, so he proceeded to look around the whole car and check the tyres, all of which were ok, then he asked me to open the door to inspect the inside. He regretted it immediately. An avalanche of wet and muddy horse-rugs fell on top of him, shortly followed by the dog. As I tunnelled in, bringing out an array of surprising things, getting more excited as I discovered long-lost cereal bowls, a TV remote control and various missing shoes, I saw the policeman admit defeat.

The hairdryer used to be a bit iffy about starting in the mornings, so in the absence of any WD40, I would lift the bonnet and spray everything liberally with deodorant or hairspray. This worked surprisingly well. The first ever car I drove was called The Budgie. It was bright yellow and I drove it around the farm because I was too young to be on the roads at the time. The Budgie had absolutely no mirrors, grass growing out of the passenger foot well and no back-seats, which made it perfect for collecting sheep in. On the road, this car was hair-raising but going about the farm it was fine, except when I once had to make an emergency stop (a duck made a suicide dash) and Emily the sheep got wedged between the two front seats……. I also had a car that was missing a window, so I used a wheel clamp to stop any buggars from nicking it. The wheel clamp worked wonders for me in other ways too, I never got a parking ticket, however ridiculously parked, with that yellow clamp on.

So all in all I am not surprised in the slightest to find out there was a mouse in living in her car, at least she knows the squeaking is nothing expensive. And my advice to all future passengers of GWFC is; don’t wear white trousers.


6 responses to “Girls With Filthy Cars

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