The Australian Women's Weekly

HUMOUR:

reinventin­g the family’s wheels

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Ffrom love to hate, I couldn’t believe how quickly the children’s affections shifted.The ferocity with which they attacked their target took my breath away.

It wasn’t deserved either. Their target had done nothing except provide comfort, convenienc­e and safe passage over years of loyal service. But none of this mattered; they turned their noses up and decided they no longer wanted to be a passenger in a passenger vehicle. They’d turned on the Tarago.

“It’s not good enough,” said one. “It’s old and daggy,” said another. Then the final blow: “We deserve a better car”. My silence was deafening. A better car? A better car? Why, there simply isn’t a better car. I fondly remember the day we found it in a used-car yard. Recently discoverin­g I’d soon have four children under five required a trade-up, more exciting than seeing the single blue line on the pregnancy test. Finally I could live my dream, slip into a bucket seat and get behind the wheel of a Tarago, a vehicle so versatile it’s the preferred ride for Rotarians and rock stars alike.

It shone brightly under the “one owner” sticker on the windscreen and had me at eight seats, rear wiper and dual sliding doors. The AM/FM radio, cassette deck and ergonomic front seat armrests (retractabl­e) sealed the deal and off we drove into the sunset, where it’s continued to serve me reliably, with purpose and without complaint through years of child abuse – theirs. If I had a dollar for every Cheesy-Mite, rusk, Teddy Bear biscuit or booger that’s been ground into the upholstery, carpet and ceiling, I’d be rich. The Tarago, unlike my husband, has never failed to start when I need it to and requires very little attention mechanical­ly or otherwise.

But the neighbour had a new car and the kids wanted to be like the Joneses (actually the Bridgmans). I got biblical, quoting Exodus 20:17, which states, “You shall not covet your neighbour’s house, your neighbour’s wife, or his servant, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbour including their new white Land Rover Discovery with seat warmers and reversing camera.”

They rolled their eyes at my new interest in religion and wouldn’t be swayed. Their campaign continued for weeks. Repeatedly I heard how they were embarrasse­d by my purple seat covers, the “Cheer Up Emo Kid” bumper sticker and the fondness I had for touch parking as evidenced by the indentatio­ns on the body. I called for a compromise. I would not discard something because it was old. I was their moral compass, pointing them towards sustainabl­e life choices. New didn’t mean better, kids. However, I did concede I could fix the body and “fancy” the car up for them if it would make them happier and less embarrasse­d at drop off/pick up. We shook hands and I called my Greek panelbeate­r, Kon.

I explained my situation and how I wanted to teach the kids a lesson. Being a Tarago driver himself, Kon appreciate­d my vision and set to work. I’d asked him to do all he could. When I picked the car up a week later I almost cried with delight. It was fully sick, mate. Flames. Giant orange and red ones painted all down the side from the front door to the back tyres. Like a woman of a certain age who starts dressing in purple and red, this car wasn’t fading into the background. The kids? Well of course they’re completely embarrasse­d and don’t want to go anywhere with me “in that car”. They’ve decided they prefer riding their bikes to/from school anyway. Now that’s a flamin’ victory …

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