We left London one Cleo poorer, and I left a lot of tears lighter. Yesterday, when I really, truly and seriously contemplated selling her I had a reaction of instant grief. Peter, my mechanic, had to end our conversation quickly because I cried on the phone and I was about to set him off too.
Cleo is the first car I’ve owned myself. Bought myself, registered myself, done all the paperwork for myself. Had fall apart on me. Myself. If I could only learn to maintain her myself… She’s not easy to drive with a clutch you are not allowed to touch except when you change gear (NEVER EVER RIDE THE CLUTCH IN AN OLD MG! They wear out in no time if you do. Rush-hour driving is a nightmare). And the gears are a little clunky. And it’s difficult to get in and out as she’s so low (former dancer me is fine, but Kevin groans a lot every time — I’m amazed I managed to lever my hip-operated dad into her last year, but it had to be done. The man with the initials MG just had to drive her). Power steering…? Never heard of it. And as for the CD player — the only kind of music there’s any point in playing is rock. Loudly. And sing along. Loudly and badly, competing with the car. The badly part of the sing-along is not a requirement.
Kevin is not into rock, and his jazz is a no-go in her as the mixture of the roar of the engine (she does roar — I love it!) and the permanent hurricane from the many leaky seals — one of the window seals has a nice little round hole in it which produces a permanent whistle noise — totally kills the finer points of jazz. Actually, it kills all the points of jazz. Radio is of course also a total waste of time. So we rarely bother to bring the radio/CD.
To cut the heartache short; after some deliberation and tearful discussion we decided to leave her with Peter for major work to rectify her present problems. We then proceeded to book a flight back to Vienna, contacted Deutsche Bahn (German railways) to see if we could cancel our return tickets and hopefully get a refund.
We left with heavy hearts. One thing was leaving our baby behind. But then there was London. I admit that I was not all too happy when we lived there, but we did live in a less than ideal place; Leytonstone. And I did have some odd jobs that didn’t make me directly ecstatic about travel time and general quality of life; all work and no play made Ine a very dull girl. Leytonstone didn’t help. And my wages seemed to go down rather than up as the wage increases never even followed inflation. And of course there was the instance of the boss who took the lyrics ‘diamonds are a girl’s best friends’ rather too literally, which did little to cheer me up at the time.
But this time we stayed in Crouch end (well, almost. More like walking distance from Alexandra Palace in a northerly direction) — referred to as ‘couch end’ among psychologists due to the high density of therapists in the area — it’s a terrific area in North London. And we stayed with Colin. I miss Colin. Even if we always blow up at each other at least three or four times when we see each other, these are the kind of blows that never last but are there and gone sometimes within seconds (we work at high speeds — no time for anything else — the explosions worry Kevin, but Colin and I sort of enjoy them). And Peter is there, where Cleo is now; with her therapist Peter. Leonard used to live there and normally we stayed with him, but he’s now moved to the US and married his first love which is just SO ROMANTIC!
The point is: London seemed a lot nicer than I remembered. I admit that my expectations were not great as the living-in-London experience had not been all that much to sing and dance about, but somehow it seemed cleaner. And people apologised when you elbowed them in the eye on the tube. I just love that about the British. And though the art of queuing is on the wane even there, there’s enough of it left to make it an almost pleasant experience catching the tube or going to a supermarket. And last but not least, it was possible to understand conversations without having to ask people to slow down for the dumbo foreigner. It made me realise I really have to work harder to learn German. Because even though I felt more at home in London than ever before, I am not giving up on Austria! I think the key lies in the language. And possibly in getting rid of my sense of humour. (I am so going to suffer for that comment…)
On the journey home I noticed that Kevin was not quite himself. When I asked him if he was ok — as if either of us were after all the Cleo palaver! — I saw that he had tears in his eyes. And I knew then just how much he loves me. He is intensely homesick having adopted London as his own, having spent most of his life there, lived through the best and the worst times of his life there. Some with me, some alone. Nothing would make him happier than if I said; let’s go back! Now! But I can’t. London is falling apart, and I know that this time I looked at it through rose-tinted glasses: I was in no hurry to get to work; in less danger from getting killed by some nasty BMW driver with a hatred of bikers though possibly in more danger of being killed by someone pulling a knife on me; I was not permanently exhausted from work and the time it took me to get there and back. I was a tourist. And that was nice. And when disregarding the language barrier my quality of life is so much better in Vienna.
But for Kevin it is not the same. His home will always be London.
