Meet Robert:
This is a continuing chronicle of the tales of Robert.
But any tale needs a beginning, and dropping you, dear viewer, right in the middle of this tale would be most remiss of me! Thus, I shall spin you a tale of mechanical pain and glory!
It began with a Corolla called Robbie, and a Laser called Bert. Robbie was my first car, and the first car to be killed by pure negligence. That tale is past now though, and not one to dwell on. The second, and far more significant tale, is that of Bert.
Bert was The Girl's car. She had been using him for many years, and he had developed a bit of a terrible chest infection, and had a very throaty cough. However, he had done her well and served as loyal a steed as possible, until he was replaced by Moira... a very shiny Red Barina, with the personality and guts to match, and importantly, air conditioning!
Thus poor Bert was put out to pasture. An old man, he was merely going to reside in a yard until he suffered a terminal case of rust:
Or was wrecked for being in the way. Thankfully, his connection was stronger than it seemed and he was held on to for sentimental reasons.
As it happened, I had only gotten my L's 12 months prior to Robbie's tragic demise at the hands of the outbound freeway, the colossal hill murdering his engine and leaving him dripping fluids on the side of the road, never to be started again. In the time on my L's, I had driven Bert a little, and had been given an initiation in the strange world of the manual choke... and cars with drag racing gearing for first gear!
The Girl, love of my life, took it upon Herself to teach me how to drive, which is how I ended up spending time in the geriatric old Bert. He didn't take to me at first, all cramped and uncomfortable, I could never fit properly and he didn't want to go smoothy for me, all stop start and grumbles, but he did get me some hours.
Sadly, once I had my P plates, Bert was once again put out to pasture, living a quiet life while I trundled around in Robbie, blissfully unaware that the engine cutouts at speed, and the oil light flashing intermittently, were only symptoms of a much deeper problem.
On the night Robbie died, I had been following She Who Must Be Awesome up the freeway, and enjoying myself, when Bert reached out from the top of the hill and declared that He Must Live Again.
Thusly, Robbie was killed, and I was picked up in the stylish Moira. Many a tear was shed that night, for my first charge, though he may have been a little slow and senile, was still my first car.
But upon that grave, rose Bert, like a phoenix from the ashes. He was gifted to me, and with a little rename to indicate the start of his new life, as well as the history involved, Robert was born unto my driveway. With a little prodding of levers and switches, a fit was found, like a glove, and Robert accepted my presence.
Robert stayed with me initially at a place away from my parents, where I was staying and being cared for, and He did treat me well, even though he did cough and splutter, he got me around. However once I moved *back* to my parents... well. Some inspection by the Father Figure was required, of course:
Robert was parked in the driveway and immediately dissected, for his illness was grave and dire. This illness will be the topic of my next post, so stay tuned, I'll be back soon!
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