Shelley Wright's wry look at life

FOR the last seven days I have to admit I've been wrestling ceaselessly with a one track mind that seems to be stuck like a particularly scratched old Stone Roses LP.

Now, before your imagination goes into overdrive -- thank you very much -- just let me explain.

And let me reassure you I'm not about to take this well-respected, long-established, pillar-of-the-community family newspaper delving any dark depths. All right?

You see, I don't think I'm thinking about what I think you're probably thinking about -- or at least what most people think about when someone confesses to the aforementioned one track mind. Oh no.

I'm talking about the small matter of a car -- though I'm not going to say what I think you were on about my friend.

As Ricki Lake would say -- in a trashy deep south American accent no less -- don't even go there girlfriend!

Anyway, my point, now I get to it, is that I'm having a bit of a nightmare with the old car and I can't stop thinking about it. Or rather what to do with it. And then, depending what I decide, what to do next.

I don't know about you but it's all starting to make my head hurt.

You see I'm thinking of selling mine but just can't decide what to do for the best. The truth is I love it and if I sell it I reckon I will turn into Iris the Irritable Earwig almost instantly, no matter what I do instead. So I suppose any normal person would tell me not to sell it, but thing is I should, because certain circumstances have changed and it's just not practical to keep. Aaargh! Can you tell I've given this some major thought?

Women eh? Whoever said they never know what they want?

So far all I've done about it, except talk everyone I know to death on the subject, is spend Sunday afternoon trawling around some oversized used car dealership looking at hundreds of nearly new vehicles hoping to find life after a Volkswagen Golf Cabriolet.

By the end of the day I'd have been happy just to have found life, let me tell you. I felt totally drained. Like my entire lifeforce had been supped from my arm by a huge hypodermic syringe.

It might have been less painful than wandering aimlessly up and down aisles listening to people slamming car doors and going: "Hmmm, that's nice." I mean, I'm no expert here, but what has that clunking noise got to do with anything?

Then there are the salesmen in golf buggies and the people working out how much they can afford to spend on their dream car if they give up booze, fags and probably food for the rest of their lives. Parents were dragging kids around and I'm sure I heard one mum tell her tribe they would come again next week if they didn't behave. It was like the hold adults have over children in the month leading up to Christmas Day -- but 50 times as bad.

Thing is -- and this is the most annoying thing let me tell you -- most of the people there had no intention whatsoever of driving anything away.

They were just looking, browsing, dreaming, spending their free time pretending they can afford more than the beat up old Austin Maestro they'd tucked away at the back of the customer car park. Two hours later most of them set off for home feeling thoroughly cheesed off.

And me? Well, I'm no better I'm afraid -- and I still don't know what to do!