We never expect the inevitable. We know that it will happen, that it is a certainty, but we never accept that it will truly happen.
The death of a Mercedes is not an event I ever believed would happen, but yesterday, on the way back from work, it did.
My motor and I have been together for many, many miles and it is fair to say that it is the best car that I have ever owned. Over the last years I have been saddened to see its impressive exterior fade. The wheels have blackened, there are chip marks on the bonnet, the headlights have misted, and there are one of two pieces of evidence relating to non-too-careful driving.
Nevertheless, it has always been there for me and has never let me down.
And so this appears to be the end of the road. As I have said before, endings are difficult. The old man can sit on my drive and slowly rust as I watch the tyres deflating. The weeds can grow around it and beneath its hulk can be a patch that is forever protected from the elements. I have seen how the French do this slow death. They place their cars out in the adjacent field and let nature reclaim them. It’s not aesthetic and there is no meaning to be gained from such acts; only indifference to the vehicle and the world around it.
Even if its wheels don’t turn, the world will. That’s it with this whole affair, it continues with or without a Mercedes.
There is the choice of endings; soppy or brave.
There’s a herd of wight walkers led by the Night King and they are just itching for a scrap. My money’s on me and Mercy-boy any day (and night).