Sad news in my household. Moonie is not long for this world.
The time is fast approaching when I must put her out of her misery despite the fact that she seems pretty robust regardless of her aging years. Like Boxer in "Animal Farm," I will soon load her up into her metaphorical horse box and send her to the knacker's yard and that will be it.
Crushed! Not me but her. She will be crushed, literally, because despite being in absolutely tip-top condition, despite starting first time every time, despite her unbelievable fuel economy and once green credentials, the mayor of London has decreed she must die.
Now, giving my commuter car a gender and a name is a bit extreme, I agree, but the truth is my little Ford Fiesta has taken me on a 161,000 mile journey, without so much as a blip.
Seriously, once this ex-Essex boy got over the fact that I was buying a car that took me back down the Dagenham (with a soft G) Village memory lane, I have never had a more reliable and efficient car.
I first bought "it," (genderless now as I get into my tale), as a fabulously green way of driving into The City every day from my countryside home.