There is a time in every ones life when something so crazy happens that you’re not too sure whether to be happy or fear for your life. In this instance I’m going with fear for your life and the lives or every other motor driver on the road.
My brother is starting to drive.
Not only has the nutter been granted his provisional piece of green card, he has also stolen my car. I came home to discover my wheels had been branded with L plates.
These plates are not subtle pieces of sticky paper that they once were. Oh no. These are ‘Magnetic banners’ a warning sign to the sane that there is an inexperienced, racer wanna be (driving a purple car may I add!) lose on the streets of Guildford. Long gone are the days of arguing over the front seat; now its fist fights over the keys.
Josh (my car’s acquired name) and myself have had some wonderful moments. There was that time we bundled about 8 people into it and proceeded to drive past an army of police men, or the time we got caught ‘miss behaving’ with an old friend, or the time it got covered in marsh mellows or was it gay porn?
Either way it was a good little runner, bless his little rubber tyres.
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