Real Life | 23 May 2009

There was something hideously inevitable about the whole thing. I should have known it was going to happen. It was the most obvious thing in the world, when you think about it.

I picked up my car from the Peugeot garage, having spent £1,200 on repairs taking two weeks and more arguing with mechanics than the astronauts of Apollo 13 must have had to go through as they were fashioning an escape pod out of the lunar landing module. When they finally brought my car out to me it was all shiny and perky looking. Even the alloys had been polished. It was, to all intents and purposes, perfect.

I got into it, drove it into town, and promptly crunched the front right wing into a bollard at the entrance to an underground car park. You see, inevitable. There was just no way that the gods up above were going to let me enjoy that little bit of hard-earned perfection for longer than ten minutes.