https://pixabay.com/es/photos/niñita-flores-silvestres-prado-niño-2516578/
The Car
Summer is the best time of year, isn’t it; fruit bursting with brightness on supple green bushes, the air buzzing with busy bees (and lawn mowers), the rivers (and pools) warm and inviting. Yes, I love summer!
Obviously, I’m not totally against winter, or any other season, else I wouldn’t have posts all over social media, picturing THAT day that it snowed in Africa. Also, I wouldn’t be hitting the “like” button on every fairytale snowscape I see. Be that as it may, I still prefer summer.
Now that we have my personal preferences out of the way. I want to tell you about the car. No, no, not THE CAR, because we all know how that ends, but “the car”, which as you can see, is not the same thing at all.
I bought it (with my own money, mind) when I was seventeen-years-old, it was a bright yellow, second hand Fiat and I called it Harold. It was exceptionally beautiful and, well, yellow.
I loved it a great deal, after all it had cost me more than half the money I’d saved up waitressing during my first year at varsity. I loved it dearly, and I washed and buffed it every weekend, with indulgent, loving care.
What a car.
Now for the confession…
My first, serious, boyfriend and I would zip around in Harold; clubs, school, bright lights (you get my drift…). He (not the car silly, the boyfriend, only owned an off-road motorbike, so when I needed to care for my hair, the car was the better option). Anyway, to cut a very long summer story short, I loved Harold (more than the boyfriend that is (Jeez, hope he’s not on Hive)), but I never LEARNED TO DRIVE HIM (why is it that girls think of their cars as “him”, while boys...while boys -...;//&$#@).
Now the reason that I was talking about summer and all, is because although the summers in Africa are more perfect than freshly baked croissants, and twice as luscious - summer marks the season of Harold’s demise. He was so robust and shiny, but I had to sell him to build a wall around my (then) abode. (no, I’m not joking). At the time it was a compromise (no I’m lying, I was ridiculously jealous of my boyfriend’s ability to drive).
I got out of the car to save my dignity.
I still can’t drive. (Please don’t tell people who count like 
