Carol’s Column

Ma needs her car in a hurry down here on Earth

The year started with a bang, literally, when the person with whom I was driving had a minor accident and hit a pillar in a parking bay. She was outraged. She flew from the vehicle her arms waving like windmills.

"It's that large green car. Have you ever seen anyone park so selfishly? He's taking up too much space. He should have his wheels clamped."

"Had he parked correctly in his place, I wouldn't have had to squeeze my car into a space much too small and this wouldn't have happened." Actually, she was right. The green car occupied more than its fair share of space.

"I'm going to punch him when he returns," growled the driver bouncing up and down on her dainty feet. "He's meatmince."

"Mincemeat," I corrected gently.

"He's just lucky I'm a pacifist," she said. "When he comes, I'll tell him he should stick to riding a bicycle."

Strong words indeed, especially coming from a diminutive, white-haired octogenarian. But I knew this driver well, too well. She was my mother and I knew she meant what she said.

About to turn 85, my maternal parent has possessed a driver's licence since the age of 18 when she lived in the town of Karlsruhe in Germany.

Her father was one of the first people in the area to own a car in those early days. It was, she remembers, a white Bugatti with red leather upholstery and the gear lever placed outside the passenger door.

The point is she's been driving for almost 67 years and in all that time has never had an accident.

A good driver, she's as at home behind the wheel of her car as she is on a pair of skis.

She often says that for older people, driving and skiing are distinct advantages because it cuts out walking, which becomes tiring at this age.

Not that she has much of an opportunity to ski here.

Because the parking lot was full, this small space had been the only one available and carefully, she'd edged her way in. Not carefully enough. Inadvertently, she'd dinged her car.

But so slightly you could barely see the dent. "Ma, it's nothing, you can't even see it," I consoled her.

The wrong thing to say because in her eyes, her small car which is at least 20 years old, is a Rolls Royce.

The pristine dent-free bodywork shines like the crown jewels and the inside is so clean that you could perform open-heart surgery without the worry of sepsis forming.

Within hours, she'd spoken to the insurance, driven around and organised three quotes and the following day I accompanied her to Mr Nel's panelbeating workshop.

My mother twinkled at him and he promised to deliver her car the following morning as "good as new".

Because of the excellent track record, it seemed she didn't have to pay excess and there was immediate authorisation from the insurance.

It was astonishing. "I’ve never had such treatment before. How did you organise it?"

She smiled. "I told the broker I didn't have time to waste. Who knows where I'll be tomorrow. Although in heaven you don't need a car because everyone is self-propelled, here I need my car. I have to go to the library tomorrow otherwise my books will be late and I'll have to pay a fine."

"I'll give you a lift today and tomorrow," I said.

"Darling, don't worry, I know you're busy and Boris said he would schlepp me around on his motorbike."

Boris, a jazz guitarist, is her 72-year-old neighbour.

Ag, ja, well, no fine.

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