Bleu

I carefully ease myself into the car in the parking lot at school. I parked my car near the playground which borders on Lucie’s class and I don’t want her to see me, because then she might cry as school is not yet over.

So I sink into my seat, partly crawling under the steering wheel, to increase my invisibility.

Then I realize that she might recognize the car. I’d better reverse as quickly as possible and then 'swish' away.

So, I start, throttle, think 'swish', hear 'boom' and don’t move.

I kind of pull myself erect from my slumped position and say aloud and with amazement (the latter only to give myself the benefit of the doubt I guess, since nobody ever complimented me for my excellent driving capabilities):

"What have I done now!?"

And it is this. I have rammed the cricket coache’s tiny Opel.

Perhaps it’s not so bad, I think to myself. But that is rather disappointing. There is a buttock shaped dent in the hood. It looks like I have been sitting on it. Which is of course not the case. Fortunately, because then I would probably have hit my own legs and that would have really added fuel to the fire. How on earth do you explain either eventuality to the police and arrange that the car will be repaired? Pretty hard indeed. For a moment I feel relieved that I’m unharmed, but then the problems start anyway.

I need a quote from two different dealers for insurance purposes.

The man from the Toyota dealer has a large, bluish nose. This of course is not relevant, he is probably very kind and good at his job, but it is distracting. And I have to concentrate, because I have difficulty focusing when the topic ‘car’ is under discussion.

"What can I do for you?" he asks.

I say, "Well, I hit another car."

Then, by chatting: "Yes, I have the car only for transport reasons, because you can not do without it in this country, especially if you have children. And I’ve got it to bash other cars, so it seems."

No-one is really interested in this additional information, but apparently the subject of a car, brings out the Smurfette in me. And not even a modern one, with a feminist bob-cut, leather pants and painted fingernails, who knows it all and with some aplomb answers the gentlemen on a variety of topics with an occasional oblique joke in between.

(This is perhaps a blessing in disguise however on the other hand, because we have already got more feminists than we ever needed and if we run out of real smurffettes, you might say the job is done).

After walking around my car and writing down a lot of numbers, I’m given the quote for the bumper. The thing missing is a quote for the labor to be done.

"Do you think I will smurf the bumper to the car myself?" I ask.

"Oh, you want someone else to smurf it to your car?" he asks.

So I say, "Yeah, sure! What did you smurf yourself?"

The bluisch nose gives me two addresses where they can fit my bumper. I say sincerely: "Well smurf you soon!" and I manage to go to the other addresses quite quickly. Thereafter I haste myself back into the normal world. Of which I understand nothing at all either, most of the time.