Objects in the rear-view mirror may appear closer than they are.

I can't wait to get to a city where I can exist in peace again. In a car. I realise that's not the environmentally responsible thing to say, but so what- it's true. I miss my car, in all it's carbon spewing glory! My rolling school locker full of stuff- my infallible bubble of Zen insulating me from the world. The back seat where magazines, lunch wrappers, and sandy beach toys go to die. The front passenger seat holding a capsule wardrobe, cassette tapes and gym shoes. A glove box full of useless bits, and a personal sound proof karaoke booth.

I'm divided when it comes to judging people by their cars. Except for those greased up boys who cruise the main street pimped out with blaring music and leering looks. You know who you are - big input valve, small output valve. That's all I'm saying.

I don't always agree that the model, make or the cost have a lot of impact. But unfailing you can rely on the amount of crap it holds, radio settings, dings in the side or scrapes along the back bumper. They, to me, hold the vital clues. Flashy colour = I want to be noticed. Lots of crap = always on the go. Dings in the side = not as observant as I seem. Scrapes along the bumper = other people haven't found that I'm observant either.

My first car was a hand-me-down from my grandfather, a silver Subaru station wagon, roof racks, hard to roll with a super aggressive giant metal bulbar bolted to the front. On the road it was credible; where as I was not. I still think of it as a car that suited me, outward protection, inner comfort, a radio that functioned and an engine in perfect running order. And full of an inordinate amount of junk. Thanks grampy. But was it an embodiment of everything I already was or everything that a the time I was lacking? And in what dilutions?

We all know that even the shiniest of cars might have a quirky carburetor that no mechanic can sort. Just like cars our human faults are pretty evenly spread between us all. Some manufacture faults, some incurred after 50,000 miles, others due to another mechanism halting. Their intricacies are side mirrors to our failings as humans. If only we could spot them on the first test drive.

In any case, these days I miss being able to lock myself in a bubble and glide through the world regardless of whether the car embodies my virtues or my faults. At least in a vehicle assault on your person is limited to the occasional lane dodger or irate pedestrian glaring at you while they march across the street to test your brakes. And yes, that pedestrian is currently me - and yes, drivers my hatred for you is borne out of jealousy. So deal with it buddy. Deal with it.