As many of my blogs have already indicated, I like holding everything in my life in a very tight grip. Already, my health has flown the coop, and the children always teeter on its edges. But now, it’s the car. The unbiddable, unpredictable, enfuriating black pest. The low point was definitely being towed, helplessly, to the garage today. ‘Electronic fault’ was all it could give me (not calling this tormentor ‘she’, it doesn’t deserve that title, although some men might disagree…). I have no sentimental connection with something that has given me hours of waiting in a stuffy, fume-filled garage reception, in the company either of two grumpy clambering children, a sweaty, pre-occupied mechanic, or just my slow-moving watch. It has also granted me many walks to and from the train station, several unanswered phone calls, and numerous marital rows. Of course, general advice is to replace it. But what if the next car turns out to be as much of a beast as this one? It might be lovely for a time, and then, I’d find myself sitting on that warped plastic seat, sweating, choking, and waiting. Again. Never again, is what I’m saying, and yet, I can say nothing. I’m not the car, I’m not the mechanic, I have no power in this game. ‘Letting go fault’ is flashing on my screen right now, and I don’t know how to ever turn that one off.