I arrived at the parking station after a 12-hour day in the office, only to find that some mentally challenged individual had decided that my black car was offending his or her sense of entitlement. He or she had decided that my car would look much better with a 30-cm gash. Obviously, a key was used on the right-hand-side rear over the right rear panel. I think Dante describes it well. Like his Satan in the Inferno, you too are impotent, ignorant, and full of hate. Congratulations.

The car will be repaired, and I am happy to pay for it without claiming it on insurance. I could say that I wish that your car breaks down on Sydney Harbour Bridge during peak hour, but I am thinking about everybody else who would be affected, so let me finish up by wishing that the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits and leave it at that.

Losing concentration whilst going fast. Another day, another One on One with Boz. To spare myself the agony of the 4 a.m. wakeup call, I stayed at Goulburn overnight. There is nothing like a family-owned motel in Australia. I stayed in enough of them when I worked for Shell and travelled to Alice Springs and every small town in South Australia and the Northern Territory. The one in Goulburn had a special surprise in the shape of a spider who decided that he wanted to share my bathroom. I know, in Australia I am never too far away from an arachnid, but that does not make them any more enticing. At least at home they keep their distance, thanks to my ever-present can of insect spray. This specimen liked the bathroom very much, and no amount of persuasion would convince him to move away. Let’s just say I won that argument.

The day at Wakefield was huge fun, but I did try to expand the track by going off at regular intervals. The Fish Hook turn became my Waterloo that day. I felt totally ruffled, and to add to my bad driving on one of the sessions I glanced at a friend who came with me that day whilst he was standing at the concrete wall at the straight. A split second later, I was facing the wrong way and nearly redesigned the track. Sam tried to make me feel better by telling me about a professional driver who did something equally silly. Thank you Sam, it did help. However, I still felt very foolish knowing that I am just not that good, and losing my concentration did not help. I should have known better.

Photos, High Heels, Railway Tracks and Helmet. In order for the header on this website and other photo’s I needed for Motoring Misdemeanours I knew I wanted a very industrial and grungy background I was lucky enough to secure the rear area of the Carriage works in Eveleigh. Joe from Smarterdigital was kind enough to spend half a day with me to provide these fabulous photos. The giggles began whilst wearing a helmet that quickly fogged up as I kept laughing. The high heels and the somewhat covered railway tracks posed problems I never anticipated. I could not see where I was going, to add to my woes. I hate having my photo taken, and my self-consciousness did not go away. Even wearing the helmet did not help. Joe, being the eternal perfectionist, had me moving the car again and again until there was no reflection and the car looked just fabulous. I was just an afterthought. My feet ached, my back was sore and I learned a new appreciation for models on photo shoots. In my fogged and muddled brain I had forgotten to turn the lights off on my car, ending up with a flat battery. From Carriageworks, rescuers came in the shape of Matt, proud owner of a 1980s Mercedes, and Kaillan, who had been helping us during the shoot. Thanks so much to both of you; you cannot imagine how much your help was appreciated.

Perhaps I can even convince the RMS to use the shot of me wearing the helmet as my driver’s licence photo? Or perhaps not.

Holiday made in heaven. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to be able to have a holiday that I will remember for a very long time. Arrived in London on the usual early morning Qantas flight. Staggered out of the plane looking much worse for wear—and I’d been sitting in the pointy end. Heaven help Heathrow staff if I ever get out of economy. They might have to shoot me to stop me scaring people.

Rusty picked me up, or more likely spotted the walking dead and decided that I was about the right height, sex and looked vaguely familiar, and deposited me in my hotel in next to no time. I love London, but it sometimes gets a little bit creepy when he drives through the park and around Tyburn Hill as I am reminded of all the people who were executed there. I read that some of the old sayings originate from this area. Such as ‘one for the road’— this refers exactly to that, as men would pass a drink to the condemned on their ways to the gallows.

Sorry, got side-tracked. Shower, change of clothes, hair done and a quick walk through the park and I was in Mayfair. Made sure that Harrods, Selfridges and Harvey Nichols were still there, something to eat, little bit of retail therapy, back to the hotel and crash. Next morning, Brooklands. Why anybody in their right mind would let me behind the wheel of the newly-released Gull Wing SLS Mercedes is beyond me, but they did. Boy did I have fun. I had no idea how long before they usually had to change tyres, but I guessed about once a day. If not, then certainly after my attempt. The instructor allocated to me was lovely and very relaxed. The fact that he remained that way after spending hours with me remains a mystery. My crowning glory in stupidity was when an E-Class AMG came on the race track at the same time and I had to go and chase him. Let’s just say that the air wing popped up whilst I was cornering. It took me a while to get the car under control with the help of the instructor. He then looked at me and told me to relax. I had not realised, but I was so tense that I could actually feel the carpet fibres through my shoes. Instructor and car were returned in near perfect condition, and I made my way back to my hotel grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Next stop, Italy: Milan and Monza. Was lucky enough to have stayed at the BVLGARI hotel, thank you Richard, and everybody else from BVLGARI in Sydney who got me upgraded. This is not a hotel; this is heaven on a stick, understated elegance. I am told that it used to be a convent; I bet you it did not have the kind of rooms and bathrooms as it did when I stayed there. I nearly drowned in my bath, it was so big and luxurious.

So, I was in Italy, the home of Ferrari, and Formula1 was on. Did I mention that the Lotus team was staying at the same hotel? I am happy to report that I did not disgrace myself and rush up to people asking for photos and autographs.

Bless the Italians, Stand A is followed by Stand C and Stand B does not exist. My Italian is non-existent; however, pity was taken on me, and as only an Italian male could, I was rescued or more or less taken to the correct stand.

To find the hospitality venue took another few hours, or so it seemed. The entire stand was given red A3 sheets to cheer on the Ferrari team. I felt like an interloper, as I was there to cheer on Mark Webber.

Around the corner from the BVLGARI hotel was a delightful street full of my kind of shops, but the one that made me smile was a cake shop that had everything Ferrari. Cakes with Ferrari colours, cakes shaped like F1 Ferrari and everything else in between. Would have been great to buy one and bring it home. But I had been through Sydney customs a few times and that idea was shelved very quickly. So, I drove a SLS, seen F1 race and kept the courier company busy as I had to mail my purchase home. The Qantas baggage allowance was generous, but even they have their limits. Now I have to buckle down and pay for it, so that I can do it again.

The Duck Bus has sunk in Liverpool (UK). According to Jalopnic, the ghastly machine that once drove through Sydney streets is at the bottom of a river in the UK. I am glad that nobody died, and I wish all of the people who were involved in this accident a speedy recovery. Please let this be the last of these tourist traps masquerading as Fun Things To Do On Your Holiday. I am probably kidding myself that this is the same bus as we had in Sydney; but the alternative, that there are more of these hideous contraptions around the world, is just too horrible to imagine. I can remember these things on George Street, with the driver happily sounding the quacking horn to attract more tourists, and recall myself wishing that the thing would just float out of the Heads and sink. Let’s leave it at the bottom of the Mersey, and hope it stays there. However, gold star to the posts, some of them were very good:

1 – Hull Plugs, People, Hull Plugs.
2 – Cause of the accident was a quack in the hull.
3 – The boat is sinking! Quick, everybody, duck paddle.

Did I mention that I have a questionable sense of humour?

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.

24th June and where is Darwin when you need him? I am a huge fan of the Darwin Awards. Some border on the extreme, and they certainly make me smile. However, this particular morning, I badly needed somebody—anybody—to take one jerk off the road.

We had had the weekend from hell, it was cold, rainy and the roads were very slippery. On the Pacific Highway, before North Sydney, I stopped for a red light, as you do. The lights turned green, and I watched with fascination as this idiot came out of the right-hand side street on to the highway. Given that his lights would not have been amber, but well and truly red, he decided that the red was not quiet red enough (perhaps he was hoping for a different shade) doing about 80. The combination of speed, the road conditions and his own bad driving resulted in the fool skidding from a lane to lane trying not to roll his 20- year-old 3-series BMW. Since this was very early morning, he was saved by the fact that it was only him, me and one car behind me. All three of us stopped at the next lights, and it made my day to look across and see a twenty-something male, as white as a sheet, with a deathly grip on the steering wheel, terrified to take one finger off. I was going to add to his woes by telling him that he was an idiot, but I thought he must have figured that out all by himself.

30 May: Article in the SMH from Elizabeth Farrelly, What women want from a vehicle. I am no fan of Jeremy Clarkson, but do enjoy watching Top Gear. Clarkson is on record stating that occasionally his wife receives a letter from editors of magazines/newspapers/media asking her for her view of cars. Mrs Clarkson replies in the only way she knows how, and it usually contains an enthusiastic report on some form of motor vehicle that practically tore her face off and how much she enjoyed it. The reply, according to her husband, is usually filed very carefully in either the waste bin or on some spike to be shredded later. So, why do we have problems when we are buying cars? Personally, I love the experience and love ordering my cars every three years or so. But this is a report from my personal experience that has played out again and again. Female co-worker arrives at the office on Monday morning and then spends most of the morning, if not most of the day, complaining about the bad service she received from a car sales guy. A few carefully-asked questions, and you find out that the same female ventured into the showroom armed with nothing more than a boyfriend/husband/father, or in other words, a male. Add to this she had no idea what she was after, just a wish that some magical contraption would transport this lack of decision into a car of her dreams.

The conversation on Monday morning always begins the same way: “Went looking for a car on the weekend and the salesman would not even speak to me.” When you probe little deeper, it becomes very obvious that the accusation is unjustified about 90% of the time. It was the male who did the talking. OK, so what are the sales guys supposed to do? If he ignores the male and answers the female, than he will be “creepy” because all he did was ogle her. When he answers the person who is speaking to him, he gets into trouble for not speaking to the female. I will admit that some car sales guys need to go to charm school, I have been on the receiving end of a few of them, but they all got a short sharp rebuke, and a few times I was happy to take my business elsewhere.

So, here is a suggestion. Car shopping list: Price (state your range), Economy (Yes/No), Performance (Yes/No), Two door/Four Door, Petrol/Diesel, just state what is important to you. Is this a car you want to drive every day? Or is this a car that will be lucky to be used once a month? If you want a car to tow a horse float, tell the sales guy, he will not be trying to sell you a 4-cylinder 1-litre engine car. On the other hand, if you want a little city runabout and the salesman is showing a $90K HSV 8-cylinder hoon mobile, than you have every right to complain on Monday, and I will fully support you. Lastly, if you purchased a car and it is not a 100% fit, it is not the end of the world, nobody died. You can either trade it in after a year or live with it and sell it at the first opportunity. Think about it as slightly more expensive shoes and we all have a few of our tragic mistakes still in our wardrobe. I still occasionally look at my shoe collection and think “What the hell was I thinking?” And remember ladies, the guys make even worse mistakes when buying their cars; they just will not admit it. After all, it was a male who thought that the economy of a car is dependent on the size of the fuel tank.

Car maintenance, changing tyres and my younger sister. As my father was cursed/blessed with two daughters, it was a given that cars were going to be part of our lives no matter what. I was a somewhat willing victim. However, my younger sister refused at all costs to even lift a bonnet. I am older of us two, and being older by nine years, this was never going to be easy on our father. Plus the fact my sister could wrap him around her little finger, this was always going to be a spectator sport for the rest of the family. By this stage he has given up on our mother. Somewhere, something had gone wrong, and our mother possessed the same driving qualities as her mother-in-law. She once casually mentioned that one bridge leading to Brisbane truly frighted her, so she solved the problem by closing her eyes when she drove across it. If I remember correctly, it had taken us about a fortnight to scrape my father off the ceiling. I think he fed her car keys through the garbage compactor.

My first proper car was a MGB. My truly first car was a Fiat, purchased at the old Homebush Auctions. The backronym of Fix It Again Tony was spot on! I got to be so good at changing fan belts I could do it at a set of lights and be off again by the time they changed to green, once to the applause of two truckies on Parramatta Road outside Sydney Uni. The MGB was a burned out shell. I think it is illegal now, but it was not then. I had to sand it back to metal by myself, and for each undercoat repeat the performance until the beautiful British racing green as the final colour was to my father’s satisfaction. Not that he and his mates would let me have a go with the spray gun. I was just the slave labour who did the horrible stuff, and they criticised. Often!

However, when it came my sister’s turn for her first serious car, all of the hard work was done by our father, with my sister occasionally blessing him with her presence and a sweet smile to tell him how thrilled she was about her new car. But she did not escape the “intensive” course he made both of us do on how to change a tyre, check oil, check brake fluid, and what to do if the car over-heated. Needless to say she breezed through and promptly put all the information into the “I will never use any of this” file.

Some 12-18 months later, our father was returning home from a business trip when on the side of the road he spied a car exactly like my sister’s, with a large group of assorted males surrounding it. With some concern, he pulled over, only to be confronted by a bevy of males busying themselves fixing an obviously flat tyre. My sister was reclining on a makeshift banana chair with one male fanning her down and another peeling her a grape, and a police officer was directing traffic. This was the version that my father told us much, much later, when he had finally calmed down sufficiently and my sister had made sufficient overtones for him to forgive her. Ensuring that my sister was perfectly OK, father’s temper reached the point of explosion that has been known to set off earthquakes on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The entire male contingency quickly guessed that this was one father not to be trifled with and quickly departed! Father then sat in the comfort of his air-conditioned car and made my sister finish the tyre-changing exercise by herself. Let’s just say it was very strained and tense in the M household for a few weeks.