Carol’s Column

Take Norman, my car

Intelligent and sensitive people know a thing or two. For instance, they venerate age and things old.

I can relate to this.

Take Norman, my car. Nearly 11, which is old in car years, he looks splendid for his age. I bought Norman newly second-hand from Kevin McGee, a car dealer of great repute. And no, that is not necessarily an oxymoron.

Kevin was absolutely straight in his dealings. "Carol, the steering's a dog," he said all those years ago, "and she's not that hot on petrol because of the automatic transmission. But, she's a good little car and if you handle her well, she'll do you proud."

In fact, at that time, gender was the only thing we disagreed upon. I knew immediately I set eyes upon this cheeky car that he was a he from the upward curve of his rear to the engine's baritone hum. There are those who believe cars to be neuter or even androgynous. That's their choice. These are probably the same people who disavow the theory that trees feel pain because there is no empirical proof.

I form attachments to cars, ridiculous if you believe a car is just a means of getting from one place to another. That's the theory. The reality is that cars I've known intimately have always had character.

Norman's predecessor was a brave fire-engine red Mazda. I was convinced we'd grow old together until one lunchtime, in front of my eyes, he was cruelly plucked from my outstretched arms. After weeks of searching, the police found him in Alexandra burnt to a crisp. That was 10 years ago.

It took me months and much wandering through the portals of secondhand car dealers in downtown Johannesburg to find a replacement. One day, I trotted into yet another used-car emporium where I discovered Kevin who introduced me to Norman. It was love at first sight. I'd always believed that when I died, I'd drive to heaven revving the gears of either a long-wheel base Landrover with a lift-up hatch for angel spotting, or a vintage MG. Until I saw Norman.

An Opel Monza cabriolet, he's a small and modest white job with a black lid that pulls back when the sun shines. He was six months old and had belonged to somebody who thankfully decided she didn't want to drive around in a convertible as it was too dangerous what with unexpected thunder storms, low flying birds and worse, fluidic emissions of low flying birds. And so it was that I acquired Norman logically named because of his NMN number plate. In the many years of driving, I've seen a fair amount of South Africa with the lid down and fresh air all around. With an unrestricted view I've watched Egyptian geese and gibbous moons, seen littered lanes and ludicrous posters, baobab trees, mountains and skyscrapers. And, as the 20th century comes to a close, Norman is still going strong.

However, with age comes normal wear and tear. Nothing major but the usual cosmetic defects here and there. Such as the rear right-side rubber beading that loosened itself when I brushed a pillar, the small plastic seat levers that snapped, the white hub cap with its distinctive black zigzag decal, the under-the-bonnet grill which shed its plastic retainers and slipped off allowing moths, butterflies and Parktown prawns a direct route onto the hot engine and instant incineration.

So I phoned a dealer specialising in cars of Norman's ilk. "That model's out of date." he guffawed. "It's obsolete," said another. "Extinct," said a third. "Scrap that pile of junk and buy a new car."

However, with ingenuity, Norman has been bastardised and refurbished. For instance, black zigzag decals are no longer available, so I painted the 1999 all-white decal magenta.

He looks unique.

Yesterday, as I drove past Parliament, I stopped at a traffic light. The window of the car beside me rolled down. "That's a nice car," smiled the distinguished man in the rear.

"Wasn't that the President?" gasped my octogenarian mother beside me. "It looked like him," I replied with not a little pride. As everyone knows, he is a man of impeccable taste.

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