Working At The Carwash.

The holidays loomed.  Seven long weeks to be filled with japes and frolics.  Seven long weeks in which I must resist the urge to beat my children to death with the Complete Famous Five for complaining they are 'bored'.  Seven long weeks to be nagged about going to see 'How To Train A Sodding Dragon 2'.

It could be worse.  I could be my friend Susan, whose car has died an irrevocable death.  Her husband has decided they will buy a brand new one, but this will take weeks to arrive.  Seven weeks actually.  The exact length of the summer holidays.  Bastard.

With her plight in mind, I threw myself upon the mercy of the DC and asked if we could swap cars for a week, so Susan and offspring could accompany us on our japes.  For some reason, my darling husband drives around in solitary splendour in a large, seven seater Volvo 4x4, while I trundle around frantically piling many children and dogs into my Mighty, but only 5 seater, Honda.

The DC graciously consented to this swap, on the grounds I 'clear all that fucking shite' out of the Mighty Honda, and promised not to fill his Monstrous Volvo with equal amounts of shite.

My husband declares himself permanently baffled and appalled by the vast amounts of crap that fill my car.  What he is unable to grasp is that some weeks, his wife, her dog and his children spend an unfeasible amount of time in the car, shuttling between school runs; music lessons; tennis lessons; play dates;  golf lessons; various other extra curricular activities I force them to partake of with one eye ever upon the UCAS form, or whatever they call it these days, and mercy dashes to the vet and Majestic Wine. 

Due to the amount of time we spend in the car, there is a lot of stuff in it.  There are few scenarios to which I could not produce some useful contribution by rifling around for a while in my boot (as long as no one minds a little mould on the useful things).  I'm pretty sure if there was some nightmare apocalypse tomorrow, my children, the dog and I could leap into the Mighty Honda and take off up into the hills and live on the contents for several years. 

The DC on the other hand tries to avoid letting the children in his car; has banned food in the car (if I banned food in my car, we'd all starve), and regularly pays some lovely Polish men to hoover it all out.  He promised if I took all the crap out of my car, he'd pay the Poles to clean it all out too, and make it shiny and nice.

Loath as I was to lose all my 'useful things' out the car, I was starting to suspect he had a point.  The nice Majestic Wine boy had visibly recoiled from the interior when putting my booze in, and a Mystery Smell had appeared, which no amount of Febreeze could shift.  Last time I had a Mystery Smell that bad, I had to write the car off by driving it through a wall to get rid of it.  As that is generally not a recommended method for dealing with stinky cars, I decided I must comply.

Armed with several bin bags, I emptied out my Useful Things.  Amongst other things, I removed:

• An unopened bag of lentils dated 2010.
• A yoga mat, used twice, that I was loath to take out of the car, as it would involve admitting I had failed in my plan to become a serene, thin, yoga person, due to discovering it involved a bit more than lying down and breathing deeply.  As long as the yoga mat remained in the car though, there was a possibility I might go to another yoga class and become that calm and skinny person.
• 17 boxes of raisins, in various states of consumption.
• 14 packets of oatcakes, also as above.
• More evidence of McDonalds Happy Meals than supported my 'only very occasionally' claim.
• An ancient and battered copy of Prince Caspian.
• Seven odd socks, and one matching pair.
• A bag of Thornton's Special Toffee, fused into a single solid lump, and bearing shameful teeth marks suggesting that this had not stopped me trying to eat it.  .
• Various CDs all bearing titles like 'Nineties Hits' and 'Now That's Really Nineties Shite' and 'That's What I Really Call Nineties Shite' etc, all with Richard Marx and Vanilla Ice on them.
• An original iPod Shuffle.
• A 2nd gen iPod Shuffle.
• An actual current iPod Shuffle.
• Four umbrellas.
• Six pairs of pants- assorted owners.
• 27 hair bobbles.
• Too many half drunk bottles of mineral water to count.
• Crisps packets, many and varied.
• A ghost story Saff wrote at primary school (she's in Fourth Year).
• Eleven First Class stamps (result)!
• Five packets of dog treats.
• One almost but not quite empty bottle of Hermes perfume.
• Many petrol receipts, that I immediately put in the fire instead of confronting how much the Mighty Honda's thirsty habits really cost.
• Nine biros (that'll be why I can never find any pens in the house).
• Three packets of cable ties.
• A ball of string.
• Fifteen unopened mini packs of tissues.
• Some apple cores (possibly the source of The Smell).
• Two pairs of impossibly high patent heels, one black, one red.
• Six lip glosses.
• Three tubes of hand cream.
• Hello Kitty and Moshi Monsters plasters.
• Sudocrem (my youngest is EIGHT)!
• A liberal sprinkling of sesame seeds though out, due to making an emergency stop whilst attempting to embrace healthy eating.

The clever Poles did a sterling job though, the Mighty Honda was returned gleaming and pristine, all traces of Mystery Smell eliminated.  I didn't like to confess to the DC that whilst he was away, I had managed to break the seat in his precious car.  So I didn't, and will continue to deny everything if confronted.