vehicular haemorrhage

Fuck.

So my car’s engine fell out.

Let me start again: Fuck.

When someone tells you bad things happen in threes, do remember, that they’re usually all within mere hours of each other.

It all started with a sneakily executed spray-on tan, roughly 2:00pm yesterday afternoon. Which rapidly transgressed into All Hail Ye, It’s The Oros [Wo]Man.

She promised me I wouldn’t look like a naartjie. She swore on her life.

And yet, say hello to your little orange friend. I’m a walking, living, breathing, stressing, Tangerine Machine – mainly because I thought getting a subtle spray-on tan during my lunch hour, would be a suitable launch pad into summer, and like next week, a bikini.

And to think, I rather liked the disposable doondies they handed to me, and the ass cream I bought got coerced into forking out a shitload for.

Bootcamp For Butts….Because Lipo Sucks, it’s called. Good one, I mean, I fell for it. Were the product’s copywriters on crack? (geddit? Crack.)
Crisis.

Yet, not completely and overly bothered about my new skin tone, I retire after a long day to my car.

Now, I don’t care much for suspension. Speed bumps aren’t something I slow down for, and for this much I take responsibility. In fact, I swerve and hump the pavement to avoid them on the office park streets.

So as normal yesterday, went full speed over the little fuckers, much like how my colleague does it in his Land Rover and looks decidedly austere, when suddenly.

A loud kathonk interrupts Julio Iglesias (Don’t Ask. Just don’t), blaring, in Spanish, from my speakers.

That can’t be right. Beetles are built for offroad. Mine’s taken it up the batty on embankments before, coming off [relatively] unscathed.

A horrible dragging noise pursues. My car, however, is, at this moment, still rolling, albeit sounding like a combine harvester scraping over concrete. While collared-shirt consultants look on, in shocked bemusement.

Shit.

Get out, look at the tyres. Nothing.

Two dudes stop and say, ‘Ma’am…I saw it drop off.’

That’s never a good thing to hear. In any circumstances.

(Was waiting for ‘Say….did you just holiday in Orange County? snigger snigger?’)

They peer under my car, and good news. It’s not the engine. Just the entire fucking undercarriage. It’s dropped clean off. And is now wedged between my exposed exhaust system and some other large hydraulic-looking thingies.

I reverse, and they tug at it, pushing beads, until they yank out this large metal-carbon thing.

That can’t be good. The car’s still running though, so maybe I don’t need this thing anyway. Maybe VW just sticks it in there because they’re German and they can.

Jumping about saying things like ‘For love of Cunty MacCunterson’s ballbag!’ while waving about a giant chunk of sheet metal, I kind of lurk about wondering what the fuck to do next.

Fold it, and stuff it, alongside other mechanical detritus that has fallen off, into my boot, using my foot.

It’s a tight squeeze getting a cooler box into my boot, nevermind a fucken engine.
Check it out – my engine’s in my boot, just like in the old model Beetles.

Of all the fuckness. Good thing this happened in the office park and not while going at 150km/h down the frigging highway.

My car noticeably lighter, I drive off, and start giggling hysterically. Well what else are you gonna do? Uh, the entire underside of my car decided to fuck off – whatchagonnado except giggle and not drive over potholes/gravel/bumps/a stone, like, ever again?

The shock finally sinks in and I’m coasting along, and fail to notice a robot going red and by inches, inches miss t-boning a bloody S-Class Mercedes.

I nearly collided with an expensive car, without an undercarriage, so I probably would’ve sublimed on impact, and being tangerine, I wouldn’t have looked good in the body bag.

Just five minutes later, I nearly fucking had a horrible and expensive car accident.

So, yeah, a little rattled.

About as rattley as my car, what with shit just falling off – willy-nilly – from it.

Cool party trick though: ‘Wanna see something wicked?’ Open the boot, ‘Yeah, it’s my car’s undercarriage. It’s just not under the car anymore.’

Realised that driving/cars, in general, have dealt me as much trauma as men have. Tossed and turned and started to wonder. Hang on – things don’t just fall off cars. Do they? Things have to be unscrewed or tampered with. Don't they?

My God someone is trying to kill me.

Paranoia or truth?