New Car Dilemmas

I picked up my new to me car today. 

And there was much rejoicing. 

They even put a bow on this new to me can, because it's ostensibly, a used car - just new to me. But with only 2300 kilometres on the clock and a little over a year old, he's new enough to get a bow on his bonnet. 

He's red. He's shiny. He's got a few more mod cons that Clive, my old car, who was the same model, same colour and pretty much the same spec, except he was made in late 2015/early 2016 - this one is of a June 2021 vintage.

He has tinted windows - as dark as legally available - because they're a good addition in Australia - they cut down the glare. 

He's a dream to drive. Push button start. Electronic hand brake - and best of all, lane sensors which beep at you if you try and change lanes and somebody's in your way. There's also Apple Car play (no that I need that, I just Bluetooth in the phone. The driving position seem a bit higher  than in Clive - it just might be the settings again. 

In all, there was much rejoicing. 

So, my new car dilemma. What am I I going to call the bugger?

In my life I've had:

Edna the EJ Holden. Edna was a legend. What else to you call an EJ Holden that was older than yourself at the time?  Edna was mint green and had grass growing in the boot. 

There was Phoebe the Fiesta (Festiva) in London. Phoebe came with the name - I bought her off a family friend.

When I first got to Melbourne, I had Colin, a Daihatsu Centro. .65 litre engine, tinted windows and racing stripes. Colin had small man syndrome. I would have called him Allan but he couldn't make tea. 

Then there was Andrew the Toyota Echo. Andrew was also small, but like most other Andrews, what they lack in size they make up for in reliability - and he got me where I needed to go. What more do you need?

Then I got the Silver Mazda2 - also named Andrew. Andrews are also like middle aged accountants - boring but reliable. 

Then about six years ago I bought Clive. Named after Clive Owen, because he's dead sexy. (Like be still my no longer functioning ovaries. Phwoar! Can I please have one of these for Christmas?)

So now I have another Soul Red Mazda CX-3 - what am I going to call him? 

I was pondering this while I was mostly naked on a massage table having the knots in the back worked out. My massage therapist and I normally talk politics, but today we tried to find the perfect name for this new car. 

It's harder than naming a baby.

We went through some options. Thomas? Oliver? George? Cats names.

Darren? Mark? Barry? Paul? Peter? Chris?  Nope, that was most of the guys in my final year of high school.

Roger?  Nope. Too many connotations of a sexual nature. But that's a bit better. 

Eugene? Nah. Although there is a UJ in the registration, Eugene is the guy in the downstairs flat who smokes weed in the carport on occasions. 

And then it came to us. It's quite ingenious. Just as my friend who nearly called her child Mungo would have had to call his brother Cletus (and my old neighbour who's daughter is named Pearl should have a sister called Queenie) it just made sense. 

My new car is called Derek.

Derek. 

Yes, Derek. 

I know, it's a bit of a 70s porn star name. But it's Derek. It's genius. 

Why? 

He's called Derek because the last one was called Clive. 

You have to be over 50 and a fan of English comedy to get this. 

Today's song: