Post by franklinmarsh on Aug 30, 2013 8:50:38 GMT
noun
a small, mischievous devil or sprite. •a mischievous child:
a cheeky young imp
In late Middle English, the noun denoted a descendant, especially of a noble family, and later a child of the devil or a person regarded as such; hence a ‘little devil’ or mischievous child (early 17th century)
Hmmmm. A small, mischievous devil or sprite. Looking out of the bay window at the little white bastard squatting on my drive and thinking; small – yes, mischievous – not nearly strong enough, devil – definitely. I should have got rid of it years ago but….needs must when the devil drives, as they say.
The Hillman Imp. Shit. Hillman always seemed to give their cars stupid names. The Hillman Minx. Brings to mind some mechanical coquette. Trouble, just like mine. My father had a metallic blue Hillman Hunter. You can imagine that cruising the streets, looking for prey. I’ve often thought of trying to contact an owner of a Hillman Avenger, to see if that could take care of my nemesis. I believe at one time there was even a Hillman Husky, but, like I said, that’s just stupid.
I learned to drive later in life than most. I was twenty-eight when I passed my test. I was never fussed about cars – took the obligatory test at seventeen, failed miserably (a harbinger for the rest of my life) so gave up (ditto). Eight years later, dad is taken ill, and mum (a non-driver) kicks against walking or using public transport, so, dutiful son that I was, my hand was forced. Necessity focused me and I sailed through – remembering the previous humiliation helped.
Dad’s Hunter was long gone, so I needed a vehicle. A local eccentric that I occasionally encountered in the pub had a Hillman Imp, the butt of many a saloon bar joke, as at one time this fellow had been extremely well off – he was rumoured to be an OBE, no less. To cut a long story short, I obtained the vehicle. The previous owner had been a hiker, and the inside of the car seemed inches deep in dried mud, so the first port of call was a local nearby garage that had an old fashioned car cleaning machine, a kind of vacuum cleaner. For 10p you could clean the inside of a Rolls Royce. I spent 50p. Already cursing my folly, I got the little bleeder home and did a better job. When mum was satisfied that the seats now reached her standard of cleanliness, she asked to be taken for a spin. Five minutes down the road and she was violently car-sick. On alighting back on the home drive she somehow contrived to shut her finger in the door, turning her fingernail black. As if that weren’t bad enough, she went inside to find her husband had died.
Took me a while to clean out the vomit. I think the Imp took a bit of a rest after this hat-trick, but after about a month got back into the swing of things. Reproving looks from distraught pet –owners putting pictures of their loved ones on lamp posts as I tried to forget the slight bumps and screeches of the night before, gently sponging red from the white coachwork, and occasionally having to disentangle some unidentified giblets and fur from the radiator or wheel arch.
A messy back seat fumble with a rebounding Janice Berkoff, leading to threats of blackmail and death bizarrely ended up with her dying. She was certainly pregnant, but apparently I was only one of several candidates for the father ; the blackmail arising from my pacifist, non-violent demeanour. Before I could fork out the readies for the termination, one of the other sperm donors coughed up but unfortunately Jan died under the knife of the abortionist.
If my mind wasn’t already messed up, it was now overloading.
Perhaps the final straw came when my mother had a heart attack. Something (I know not what) made me try to take her to hospital in the Imp, instead of calling for an ambulance straight away. She expired in the passenger seat before we could set off and I collapsed in tears on the driveway.
The neighbours called the police as well as the paramedics. Old Bill were a bit bemused by my blaming my car. Shock, they said. I knew the truth.
You join us now a little while later as we hurtle toward the cliff edge. The little white bastard seems content to let me hurl the pair of us into oblivion. Is there a Hell for cars? Will the Imp be reunited with his master? Will we meet again in the afterlife? Will mum, dad, Janice and all those cats and dogs be waiting in ambush? Time to find out.
a small, mischievous devil or sprite. •a mischievous child:
a cheeky young imp
In late Middle English, the noun denoted a descendant, especially of a noble family, and later a child of the devil or a person regarded as such; hence a ‘little devil’ or mischievous child (early 17th century)
Hmmmm. A small, mischievous devil or sprite. Looking out of the bay window at the little white bastard squatting on my drive and thinking; small – yes, mischievous – not nearly strong enough, devil – definitely. I should have got rid of it years ago but….needs must when the devil drives, as they say.
The Hillman Imp. Shit. Hillman always seemed to give their cars stupid names. The Hillman Minx. Brings to mind some mechanical coquette. Trouble, just like mine. My father had a metallic blue Hillman Hunter. You can imagine that cruising the streets, looking for prey. I’ve often thought of trying to contact an owner of a Hillman Avenger, to see if that could take care of my nemesis. I believe at one time there was even a Hillman Husky, but, like I said, that’s just stupid.
I learned to drive later in life than most. I was twenty-eight when I passed my test. I was never fussed about cars – took the obligatory test at seventeen, failed miserably (a harbinger for the rest of my life) so gave up (ditto). Eight years later, dad is taken ill, and mum (a non-driver) kicks against walking or using public transport, so, dutiful son that I was, my hand was forced. Necessity focused me and I sailed through – remembering the previous humiliation helped.
Dad’s Hunter was long gone, so I needed a vehicle. A local eccentric that I occasionally encountered in the pub had a Hillman Imp, the butt of many a saloon bar joke, as at one time this fellow had been extremely well off – he was rumoured to be an OBE, no less. To cut a long story short, I obtained the vehicle. The previous owner had been a hiker, and the inside of the car seemed inches deep in dried mud, so the first port of call was a local nearby garage that had an old fashioned car cleaning machine, a kind of vacuum cleaner. For 10p you could clean the inside of a Rolls Royce. I spent 50p. Already cursing my folly, I got the little bleeder home and did a better job. When mum was satisfied that the seats now reached her standard of cleanliness, she asked to be taken for a spin. Five minutes down the road and she was violently car-sick. On alighting back on the home drive she somehow contrived to shut her finger in the door, turning her fingernail black. As if that weren’t bad enough, she went inside to find her husband had died.
Took me a while to clean out the vomit. I think the Imp took a bit of a rest after this hat-trick, but after about a month got back into the swing of things. Reproving looks from distraught pet –owners putting pictures of their loved ones on lamp posts as I tried to forget the slight bumps and screeches of the night before, gently sponging red from the white coachwork, and occasionally having to disentangle some unidentified giblets and fur from the radiator or wheel arch.
A messy back seat fumble with a rebounding Janice Berkoff, leading to threats of blackmail and death bizarrely ended up with her dying. She was certainly pregnant, but apparently I was only one of several candidates for the father ; the blackmail arising from my pacifist, non-violent demeanour. Before I could fork out the readies for the termination, one of the other sperm donors coughed up but unfortunately Jan died under the knife of the abortionist.
If my mind wasn’t already messed up, it was now overloading.
Perhaps the final straw came when my mother had a heart attack. Something (I know not what) made me try to take her to hospital in the Imp, instead of calling for an ambulance straight away. She expired in the passenger seat before we could set off and I collapsed in tears on the driveway.
The neighbours called the police as well as the paramedics. Old Bill were a bit bemused by my blaming my car. Shock, they said. I knew the truth.
You join us now a little while later as we hurtle toward the cliff edge. The little white bastard seems content to let me hurl the pair of us into oblivion. Is there a Hell for cars? Will the Imp be reunited with his master? Will we meet again in the afterlife? Will mum, dad, Janice and all those cats and dogs be waiting in ambush? Time to find out.