Dear VW people
So you know how my passenger electric window is stuffed? Well the other fucking window decided to break this morning, in a forage of unbecoming crunches and grinds. Of all the bloody botheration.
I bought your vehicle on the basis of it being designed and engineered in a precisely Germanic persuasion. You know, technically advanced, reliable, eschewing the precision of perfectionists. What, then, pray fuck, is this piece of shite I am driving??
The windows break, the service costs me my right ovary because everything needs fixing, and becuase of the exorbitant amount of moolah I am shelling out for this piece of shit car, I have a spastic colon. No, not a Colony Arms cane-related episode for fuck's sake, a stress-induced stomach ailment. Fuck you and your Germanic standards. Next time I'll buy an Alpha.
Peas On Toast
Update: PS: Fich dich VW. I have just received a quote for my one electric window. R4 900. Can I actually park a tiger on the floor right now? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR COTTON PICKING HEADS? Do you guys smoke crack in your lunch hour? My electric window is paying for your CEO's kids to go to private schools in fucking Oxford. It would be cheaper for me to a) fly to London b) buy a new engine c) sell my kidneys. I need trauma counselling. I am not coping.
Dear Attractive Man From Coventry,
Last night, after dinner with E and N at E’s place, and after we all got vrot on Fitzy’s, well I did anyway, and after floppingd into bed, head all but spinning, I thought about you as I drifted off to sleep.
You were the extremely attractive man I met at the conference this week. An Englishman. Now most Englishmen leave me weak at the knees if they so much as utter a sentence in their little accents (barring Essex and Cockney), but you were simply delicious. Older, perhaps mid-thirties, maybe even forty, who knows, but I suppose one does age better there.
The way you wrapped your mouth around the word ‘Coventry’, (where you were born) and how you talked to me throughout both lunch hours, over shish kebabs, about India and your travels there, and how you drove through the Transkei on an impromptu trip last year in a Chevy Spark…well. You really were quite lovely.
Naturally you had a wedding ring on your left hand, and I had a gnawing feeling in the back of my brain that echoed the words: you're married, probably have offspring, you live in the UK, and I am sort of seeing someone.
Hold the phone? I am sort of seeing someone. Yes I am. Pardon me for being unbelievably slow on the uptake, but this not-so-single-anymore status has completely taken me by surprise. The realisation has finally sunk in: I am not completely single anymore. I suppose I’m not really on the market at this precise moment. How did this suddenly happen? I know I’ve been in a fair bit of denial recently, but I really didn’t notice this little shift in my flirting techniques until I met you, really. I chose not to flirt the pants off you, a [very attractive, upstanding suit-wearing, dark and rugged married] man from Coventry, as my mind is kind of partial to someone else today.
Yours in the English countryside and shit,
Peas On Toast