Honey, they shrunk my car

Honey, they shrunk my car. A few cars ago, I owned a second generation SLK. Somebody once referred to the car as a skateboard with a motor. Very apt description, but boy did I love that car.
I ordered it sight unseen. I was once asked if I got a good deal; unfortunately at the time of this question I was with a close friend who promptly burst out laughing and pointed out that camping on the dealership floor waving a cheque book had not exactly placed me in a good bargaining position.

I watched the Mercedes site like a hawk; the minute I received the WIN number I Googled it, and up popped the name of the vessel my baby was arriving on. Subscribing to Vessel Tracker, albeit with the info only being 24 hours old, I was able to find out which port the ship was in, and as it made its way to Australia, I got to the details of the dock at which the precious cargo would be discharged. The dealership rang to tell me that the car was in Australia, and I relayed to them which port, which dock, when the vessel was arriving in Melbourne, and eventually in Sydney. More accurately, I knew more than the dealership. Ben is still laughing about this one.

Given that friends and co-workers suffered through this entire episode, with day by day and hour by hour updates, revenge was always on the cards. I did not have to wait too long. About two months into my new ownership, I arrived at the parking station where I had been parking for years. As I fumbled in my handbag looking for my car keys, I looked at the car space where I was 100% sure I’d left my car. The eye level revealed an empty car space. But the hollow feeling in my stomach was quickly replaced by so many contradictory visual oddities that my brain could not cope. I was standing there opened-mouthed, looking at my car, perfect in every way, including the number plates, but it had shrunk, and was now about 30cm long. Then it started to move and drive around the car space doing doughnuts. Next thing, I heard muffled laughter. By this stage, my shock had been replaced by a fury capable of murder. My friends and colleagues had joined forces, “borrowed” my car keys, moved my normal-sized car to a different level of the car park, and replaced it with a scale model, complete with handmade number plates. The matter was not helped by a Macquarie banker, who was leaving for the day, stopping to see the show. He simply could not help himself telling me that washing the car as often as I did would result in shrinkage. Let’s just say that the “mini me car” is still with me. The remote control was “accidentally” stepped on by yours truly at least few times. My friends are still waiting for the payback. It is coming. I just need to make it very good, and as the saying goes, revenge is a dish best served cold.