Range Rover Over

With butterflies in my stomach,  I carefully stuck up the sign reading "£8450, MOT until November, 149,000 sedate miles" in the windscreen of my Range Rover, using the piece of selotape I had prepared earlier, slammed the door shut, and ran round the corner to Esteemed Partner's house, so that he could drive me home, as I sat shaking in his passenger seat.

I had driven my beloved Range Rover, 'King III', named after Jeremy Clarkson described the Range Rover as 'The King' of the road, the eight miles down off the moor, and parked it on the grass in front of a bench, just behind the bus stop, by the Ashburton junction of the A38, bang opposite Ashburton Motors, which sells second hand four wheel drive cars at twice the price of mine.

'Foolhardy' was how Esteemed Partner described my action, through gritted teeth.

'Your mad!' exploded Sashka.

But sure enough, within 24 hours I received a phone call about it from someone calling himself 'Kouros', and was in a muddle because I didn't know whether he had seen it in real life, or come across it advertised for auction on ebay. I have now been trying to sell the thing since February!

Anyway, Kouros said his friend had seen it parked on the grass, and that he would come and give it a go on Sunday.  'Fat chance' I thought, by now quite used to no one wanting my adored car.  'Who cares, anyway - F-it; I'll keep it and flog Bill."

That evening I asked a couple of friends to bid for the car on ebay, to make it look as though somebody was interested .  I did get one enquiry and then countdown began... four hours left for someone to bid £7,500 and it was theirs. Three, two, one ......... Nothing. Gone. Auction over. Nobody. Another £17 in advertising costs down the Swannee.

Meanwhile, every time the phone rang I thought it might be the police saying they had towed my Range Rover away at vast expense and added several points to my licence, or Esteemed Partner reporting that someone had covered it in scratches, or that the wipers and/or wheels had gone missing, or, indeed, the whole thing.  After five days I could bear the tension no more, and Esteemed Partner dropped me off by the car, for me to drive it home.  Instead I went into Ashburton Motors and asked the very nice staff there if they would like to sell it for me, for a huge commission.

"No one would ever do that," they assured me (very nicely).

So I went to the Country Wholesalers to buy some horse-food and bumped straight into the arms of riding-boyfriend James, and told him my sad story.  James used to own the identical car, same colour, year, mileage and price, only his had cost him £12,000 in repairs whilst mine, much to James' envy, continued to work most of the time.  "My friend John will sell it for you," he said cheerfully. "He sold mine."

And the next thing I know is my Range Rover is on the forecourt of a small country garage in Ugborough, and kind James is driving me twenty miles home, with a stop for a baguette in the sun as a thank you in the Church House Inn on the way.

Saying goodbye to my car was like saying goodbye to a dog or a horse.  I will probably never see King III again, although John doesn't anticipate selling it quickly.  In the meantime,  for £300 it will be made to look immaculate, and for whatever it costs more, the rattle in its engine will be eradicated (I hope).  And kind young John is only going to take 10% commission! He's going to call me in a couple of months to let me know how things are going, but in the meantime will thoroughly clean King III on a daily basis.  That will make a change. And now I've got some space in my driveway. And my head.