I received my welcome pack from AMG. The usual plethora of glossy books and forms spilled on to my desk. All of it was beautifully presented, but the registration form had me scratching my head.  Names and other personal details are part and parcel of these forms. However, the “lifestyle” questions made me laugh. Possible selections included golf, cycling, AFL, cricket and number of others, but there was not a single mention of motorsport. Come on guys, this is the AMG brand. And no, I don’t mean the idiots who buy AMG badges and stick them on to C250 Diesels. This is the brand for serious rev heads. You wouldn’t include jam-making in this section, would you? Or on the other hand they probably had in the last iteration.

After years parking under a major hotel chain in the centre of Sydney and watching valet parking in action, I have serious misgivings when handing my keys to these guys. Drag racing within the confines of an underground parking station is a sight to behold, especially when they seem to be heading straight for you and there is nowhere to hide.

So it was with some apprehension I relinquished my keys to a youth who looked old enough to perhaps be in charge of a skateboard, but not a car. However, I was pressed for time and in the company of a friend who assured me that he often left his car in this very car park and never had any problems. Given that this was a major parking facility within the city, and I would be in and out within about 30 minutes, what could possibly go wrong?

I picked up the item I needed, had a quick coffee with my soon-to-be-ex-friend, and headed back to the car park. I handed over my ticket and waited for my car to reappear, somewhere near the so-called VIP area. The attendant reached into a box that seemed to contain a jumble of keys and dockets, pulled out what he thought looked the right keys, attached to a docket of crumpled paper, and scrambled towards the black hole where all the cars disappear. He appeared some time later with a powder-blue Toyota, sporting a huge exhaust pipe.

You can judge how angry I am by how quiet I become. Monosyllabic – you can still reason with me, but when I am nonverbal and my eyes turn dark blue, then duck for cover, because the explosion will be monumental. As deathly quiet descended on the car park, my friend tried heroically to save the situation by asking the attendant to match the docket I handed over to the docket attached to the correct key, but all he got was an “it looked sort of the same.”

I do not consider my car a good swap for a clapped out Toyota with an idiotic exhaust system.

The one month anniversary of obtaining my new car saw me hightail it to Wakefield. I had been looking forward to this day for a while. Also, my car needed to stretch its legs (so to speak), having being stuck in traffic and never exceeding 60 km per hour.

The traffic cleared just past Campbelltown, and I was able to put my foot down and see what my new toy was capable of. It settled into a very nice driving mode. The other drivers behaved and stayed where they belonged, instead of driving in the right-hand lane under the speed limit. I expected the fuel consumption to be hugely different from the E250, but was pleasantly surprised when I reached Sutton Forrest for my overnight pit stop to see that the fuel gauge was sitting just under ¾ full.

The following morning had me set off early, as I had been warned by SMS from Boz that session would start earlier due to trials for the Sunday race. The only worrying sign was a message on the dashboard telling me to check the oil. I will admit to opening the front bonnet in the first couple of days, but could I locate the dipstick? And not knowing where the oil went left me very sheepish. The ribbing from Boz and Sam (the Wakefield marshal) would have been painful. My, how things have changed. I could easily change the oil and clean the spark plugs on my MGB, but the solid engine cover on the Merc left me feeling very inadequate. Being a fully paid-up member of Cowards Anonymous, I called Ben from Macintosh, who assured me that the oil would not be at dangerous levels, and my trip home would be safe. However, I was still at the dealership bright and early on Tuesday, where one of the mechanics showed me (a) where the oil goes, this being very important, and (b) the correct way of measuring the oil levels. I hope never to put this information to use, but the fact that I know will eliminate any further embarrassing moments.

The day at Wakefield was huge fun. I was allocated Len, Boz’s new instructor. Unlike Boz, Len is a man of very few words, despite the fact that a few times I managed to change from 4^th to 3^rd gear, when I should have been in 5^th. My excuse, and I am sticking to it, is that the helmet obstructed my hearing, and looking at the rev count as I should have was just not happening automatically. Poor Mezzie. If it had been Boz with me, the repercussions in the “Speech” I would have been given would have lasted for the rest of the day.

I finally met John Connolly. He, of The Weekend Australian- Prestige Motoring fame. We had been emailing for a couple of years, and I think I am in the minority of his readers who does not abuse him. That is his picture gracing this story. He is a much faster driver than I am, but at least I managed to stay on the track. Says she, with her halo seriously tarnished.

Long ago, in a land far, far away (well, the early 1980s, if you must know), my mother would pull in to the local service station and the nice man would fill up her car with fuel, check her tyre pressure, check her oil, and try to chat her up. Occasionally, if Streets ice cream had a promotion, she would buy me and my sister paddle pops and we would be on our way. OK, I concede that these days my car has all the gizmos in the world. It knows when it needs oil, and the tyre pressure gauge glows red at me if the pressure has dropped, but this is beside the point.

My mother never spilled VPower on her shoes. I do, regularly. I am tired of it, and it must stop.                                                                                              

My breaking point came today. When shopping at the local supermarket, I was ushered to the self-scanning counter to scan and bag my own groceries. Of course I am capable of scanning my own groceries, but where is the discount I should be getting for doing this?

People of Australia, we should rise up and say to the likes of Woolworths, Coles, Shell, Westpac, NAB and every other corporation that we are tired of doing everything for ourselves with no show of appreciation.

We were told that by using ATMs we would avoid bank fees. Do not get me started on the fact that banking a cheque takes three day to clear, when I know it does NOT. We were told that pumping our own fuel would save money for the oil companies and that the benefits would be passed on to us. I know for a fact that oil companies buy crude oil months in advance, and hedge their settlements to get the best value out of the US dollar and lowest crude prices. Hence, giving me the pathetic excuse that the Australian dollar has dropped and a litre of petrol must raise to $1.80 is not justifiable.

So next time you are in a grocery store and somebody hands you a mop and a bucket to clean up a mess in isle 5, or stack the shelves with a new batch of Uncle Toby’s oats, consider this just another aspect of so called progress.

We must rise up and shout: “We are not going to take this anymore!” Now if you excuse me, I will do as my mother would have done, and have a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down.

Earlier this month, I went on a trip to Goulburn with Jordan and his girlfriend Bianca to pick up Jordan’s “new” car. As with most first cars, it was not really new, but very second-hand and loaded up with all the unnecessary things that are so very important to a young guy. Things like the car being MK2, not MK1, having fully braced aftermarket ECU and upgraded coils. However, no mention was made of brakes, tyre condition and stuff important to adults. Given the fact that the gumby was not even on his P-plates as yet, it would be his girlfriend Bianca driving the car home, so I decided that a little adult supervision would not go astray. Plus, it would stop me from checking my phone every five minutes to see if they were still alive.

The trip there was uneventful, excluding a side trip to Campbelltown to locate McDonalds. Both of them had arrived at my place looking slightly the worse for wear, and obviously had not eaten any breakfast. That I could have addressed this at my place did not occur to either of them. The F5 is in dire need of places that allow you to buy coffee and something to eat until you are almost in Goulburn, and the two of them did not look as though they were going to last that long.

We arrived in Goulburn to a balmy eight degrees. The seller met us in a park, near the Mobil service station. This did not exactly leave me feeling warm and fuzzy. However, I was assured that Jordan’s father had checked all the relevant details before the offer was even made. Bianca, the ever-vigilant loans officer, took photos of everything, and I mean everything. The seller, his mate, his mates’ car, his rego. Not too sure how this would help us, but at least we had evidence of some sort. Deal completed, money paid and receipted, we were on our way home.

I have travelled the road between Sydney/Goulburn/Sydney so often in the last two years I’ve lost count. Occasionally, I encounter an individual who thinks that the right-hand lane is just fine, despite the fact that they are not actually overtaking. However, all these people have been happy to move over to the left-hand lane once it was safe to do so and we could all carry on with no problems. But for the first time ever, I encountered a driver who was beyond erratic and pig-headed . Sitting in the right-hand lane, her speed fluctuated between 90 and 110. As soon as she reached 110, she would brake hard back to 100. This on a road where 110 is the allowed speed. No amount of light flashing and even once sounding my horn would make this individual move to the left. After about 10 km, I and about six other cars behind me did the wrong thing and overtook her on the left. The look of sheer righteousness on the driver’s face beggared belief. I truly hope that she has not since caused a fatality.

Sometimes best laid plans don’t quite work. Saturday found me at Macintosh about 30 seconds after the front door opened, ready to pick up my new toy. I feel that Macintosh should have my signature on record, I have signed so many documents there over the years. However, a few more needed to be signed on Saturday before I was allowed to leave with the C63 in my hot little paws. Documents signed, keys in my possession, about 100 pages of contracts, registration papers, insurance and everything right in the world, I made it home and introduced my car to where he will live for the next four years. The only glitch was that I all of a sudden realised how noisy the V8 truly is. Let’s just say that I hope my neighbours will enjoy the alarm clock as I am leaving for work, because they are going to wake up whether they want to or not.

My not-so-cunning plan to play a joke on a friend was simple enough. Ring him in the morning and ask for his assistance with a non-existent problem with my E250. I would pretend that something had gone wrong and that the car sounded like a V8. Because everything happened so quickly with the C63, he did not know that I had a new car. Both cars are roughly the same size, both have two doors, the E250 was black, the new one is dark grey. Since I planned to arrive after dark, merely ensuring that I did not park in his well-lit driveway should have worked perfectly. I called the friend in the morning, and much to my delight, he and his family were out, and would not be returning home until much later. An agreement was reached to be at his place after 7 pm. Being winter, this would work in my favour. He lives in a cul-de-sac, so street lights are far and few between. So, all set. But I had forgotten how deathly quiet suburban streets can be after dark. Let’s just say that I may as well have taken out the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald. He heard the car from about two blocks back. Instead of me getting the upper hand, what actually happened was him coming out of his house with a sarcastic “So, I hear that you have a new car!”

He is one of the very few people I do lend my cars to. I handed over the keys so that he and his youngest son could go for a drive. I am starting to question this, as his son returned grinning from ear to ear, with a smart-alec remark that the car corners well at 150 km. Aaaargh!!

It is Thursday, and it is also the last day when I will be driving my old E250. I am excited about the C63, but deep down, I feel so bad. What if the new owner of my E250 does not look after it like I did? What if they don’t love it like I did?

I need to get a grip. This is how I feel about my godchildren, which is normal, but to feel this way about an inanimate object?

This is the same way I felt about my SLK. For a couple of years after I traded it in, every time I would see an SLK in the same silvery blue, I would wonder if it was mine. Was it clean and well looked after? If it was, I would feel a little bit better, but if the car looked dirty and in need of some tender loving care, I would feel truly bad. Part of the problem is that my personalised number plates are transferred from car to car, so I can’t be sure if these cars that I am feeling so bad about were ever the one that I owned. I think it’s time for a reality check.

However, I am wondering if some strange forces are in play. Tomorrow (Friday), I need to drop my baby to Macintosh. That means removing all my personal belongings and making sure that the log book and registration papers are handed over. I then need to grab the loan car, and return on Saturday for the complete handover to happen. But looking for my registration papers last night proved to be a futile exercise. I could find registration receipts for 2011, 2012, and 2013, but 2014 was missing. There were only two possible places, filed or in the glove box. I looked in both, with no luck. So I did a quick trip to the RTA, or whatever they are called nowadays, to obtain a copy. So all is done and ready. Removing my belongings from the car tonight will be very sad.

I need to do something about my paranoia. It’s either that, or my baby is having the same separation issues as I do. So, goodbye my gorgeous, thank you for four years of fun. Thank you for never letting me down, and for always being there waiting ready for another trip. I truly hope your new owner will look after you the same way I did, or I may have to organise to have their front lawn redecorated with concrete.

Don’t ask me how this happened, but it has, and I am now sitting wondering whether I am insane, or that the excitement is overtaking any common sense I ever possessed. Let me tell you, common sense and I have never been close anyway.

It all started so innocently. On Sunday, I caught up with a friend for lunch. Driving home, I was behind a new CLA45 AMG. I had been on the waiting list for one of these for almost nine months, with a further seven to go. I looked at the car, and realised that I simply did not like it. The interior is OK, except for the pop-up screen that looks like an iPad sticky-taped to the dash board. But it has four doors. What on earth would I do with four doors?

Mulling over all this on Sunday afternoon and night left me feeling like a kid who had been looking forward to the school holidays only to find out that his overzealous parents had organised a six-week piano boot camp to fill in the time. On Monday morning, I rang Macintosh, and spoke to Simon the business manager. I casually asked the price of the C63 AMG. I promise it was the most innocent of questions. And this is where things totally spiralled out of control. However, I am a big girl, and this is my responsibility. I will not blame the lunar eclipse or the alignment of the stars.

So on Saturday 26^th, I am picking up my C63 AMG. It will be one of the last few delivered to Australia with the old 6.2lt engine, not the new 4lt supercharged and pretend sound recording of engine noise. This is the real thing. The noise of the exhaust is only comparable to a piece of classical music that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up and send shivers down your spine. Think Verdi’s Nabucco, and the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves (which, by the way, sounds out of this world on the Harman Kardon sound system). Having the sound up so high it makes the car vibrate is an optional extra best reserved for long trips on deserted roads. This volume level in city traffic results in people giving you funny looks and gesticulating wildly.

The car was ordered for one of the owners of Macintosh. Manufactured in February, registered in late April. It has almost all of the available options, excluding the upgraded differential. Less than 1,500 km on the clock. The colour is gunmetal grey, the interior is black, and I am in love.

In a last-ditch effort to be sensible, I rang my accountant. This, in hindsight, was not a good idea, as he is a petrol head of the serious nature. However, his weapons of choice are Porsches. In his defence, he did state that the ATO may not accept the full use of the vehicle for deduction purposes, and hence the cost to me would be greater, but this was the last bit of negative feedback he provided, and he very quickly changed to praising the car for resale value, the performance, and everything else every petrol head would think of. Hence, this was never ever going to be an adult conversation.

Now, after a fairly sleepless night I am fluctuating between “What have I done?” to “OMG, I own C63 AMG!” So, I am planning on sacrificing a chicken and pouring a ring of salt around myself whilst praying that I still have my driver’s licence this time next year.

It is a very rare occurrence for “Speed Off The Streets”, which is held at Wakefield, to occur on a weekend. I suspect that one such occasion came about because a private booking of the race track was cancelled. Whatever the reason, Sunday 15th appeared on the Wakefield website calendar, and I dreaded the possibility of hundreds of people descending. However, the combination of the long weekend which had occurred the previous week, and the weather—a typical blustering cold day— meant that very few cars and drivers actually turned up. In one session, a single Superkart driver had the race track all to himself, and he sounded like a very angry bee.

So with almost an open slate day, discounting the track feeling like driving on ice, compliments of the Drift team from previous day. Mud and rain on the corners played merry havoc with my grip as “Mezzie” danced around the track. But as the day wore on, the rain ceased, the track became dry and it started to be serious fun. I was joined by two others, my godson Jordan and his girlfriend Bianca. Bianca, a Wakefield virgin, managed an impressive 1.28 during one of her sessions. In between our turns, the two of them, along with Boz leading the charge, helped improve Telstra profits. It would have required a surgical procedure to separate them from their iPhones!

The day ended on a high note. “Mezzie” got a bath to bring her back to her usual stunning self, and Boz used his time taking even more photos of his babies. There were just three of them; the rest were away playing with other cars.

I have broken three records in the month of June:

1)      My June monthly total for kilometres travelled is 1,494. My average per month is around 600, so this is the most I have ever done. This has more to do with the fact that I was at Wakefield twice in a single month. Each trip is a 438km round trip, which accounts for more than 60% of the kms traveled.

2)      I have kept the E-Class for over 40,000 kms. The last car that even came close to that was my SLK, and that had 39,800 when I took possession of my next car.

3)      For the first time ever, it cost me $100 to fill up the car. Given that Shell Vpower now retails at $1.79 per litre, and the car needs 57 litre, the total came to over $102.00. Oh well, I insist on driving everywhere, so that is the price to pay.