Sophia Money-Coutts worries what her car wash fetish says about her
Posh people like a bit of mud on their bumper to imply they have an estate with plenty of off-roading
Afew days ago, I listened to a GP on the morning radio talk about the explosion of mental health problems facing the country as we emerge from the pandemic. I reckon I’m all right, I thought, checking in with myself as I folded my flannel straitjacket and tucked it neatly under my pillow. True, I’ve spent a good deal of time shuffling between the fridge and the bread bin in the past year, but hasn’t everyone? And then I thought: ah, but there is that obsessive car-washing habit you’ve developed.
I’ve been to my nearest Shell three times in the past few weeks. Tragically, it is a genuine thrill for me. When I was small, my siblings and I were occasionally taken through them as a treat (this was the 1990s) and would sit in the back of the car anticipating the roar of the washers with roughly the same level of enthusiasm with which we looked forward to Father Christmas. I feel similar glee now as I punch the ticket number in, drive forward and wait for that noise – but the terrific thing is I can do it whenever I like since I’m an adult. On my most recent trip, a black scab of bird poo failed to come off my back window and I considered going round again for another go. An expensive shrink would no doubt spend several sessions discussing this.
Every time I go, however, I’m also struck by a lurking guilt that I’m doing something embarrassing, like mispronouncing Cholmondeley or admitting that, even though you have tried, and you really have tried, you’re still pretty hazy on what the row over fishing rights actually means.
There is a real snobbery about car washing. Ancestral paintwork on the walls: very important. Paintwork on your ancient Volkswagen: extremely unimportant. Even if you’re a posh person who has upgraded to a Range Rover and given the old VW to the nanny, the Range Rover should still be more mud than car because that suggests you own an estate with plenty of off-roading, or at least know where Oxfordshire is.
Meanwhile, an ex-boyfriend of mine, a self-confessed working-class northerner, loved nothing more than a jaunt to a car wash. Although ideally it had to be a jet wash. Once, he told me to get in the car for a “romantic” sunset drive, only to take me to a jet wash in Battersea. Some people fall in love when their other half quotes Donne or offers some token which makes them feel truly understood. I felt the same seeing him dance around the car with the hose.
Nothing wrong with a clean bumper, I thought defensively on my last expedition to Shell. I suspect there are others grappling with this fetish, since the queues tailing back from the petrol station are longer than the queues outside my local vaccine centre (though if you are among the 97 per cent of people who have bought a new puppy, do remember they don’t necessarily get such a kick from the approach of the rubber brushes. Not so long ago, a friend took her dog through one for the first time and he peed all over the seats). Either it’s spring-cleaning time or a troubling sign of a deeper malaise which doctors are yet to pick up on.
Next week, I might think about waxing myself but in the meantime, I’d rather look after my motor. And I’m not sure there’s anything so mentally aberrant about that, is there?