Fuel crisis? What fuel crisis. I’m driving around in a car that does 50pmg.
Well, it said 50 on the gauge when I bought it from the nice City worker from New Zealand, and he was driving it up and down the vertiginous slopes of Forest Hill.
Within days of me owning it, and driving it up and down the distinctly flat A3, it was averaging 46.
Now, let’s put this in perspective. I was averaging 26mpg in the Volvo. I used to dream of 27. Wild, fevered dreams I had, in which I became the only Volvo driver in history to get 27. But the best I ever got out of it was 26.9 — on the last day I drove it, ironically.
So, in a way, Aviva did me a favour by slapping a huge insurance premium on me after my phantom crash, because then I had to get a more sensible run-around.
I fell in love with the Panda when I saw the mpg reading. I took it home with all sorts of unhealthy expectations of it. I quickly became obsessed with the workings of its dinky little fuel gauge. Since the day I bought it, I’ve been watching the needle compulsively, getting distraught every time it budges.
As for the mpg monitor, I’m mesmerised by it. I keep nearly crashing because I can’t stop staring at it. I drive along in a semi-hypnotic state mumbling ‘47. 47.3. Go on. Go on.’ The Panda is obviously doing its best and no doubt feels the weight of my disappointment.
‘What am I doing wrong?’ I wailed to the boyfriend, as I slumped in front of the steering wheel after returning home to find my finishing average a distressing 44mpg. ‘What am I doing different to the man from New Zealand?’
‘Keep the revs down,’ he said.
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