You wanna be startin Something.

I’ve never had a brand new car. Well until about 2 years ago I hadn’t. We were sick and tired of buying other peoples “bargains”. It

probably came to a head in 35 degree heat, after the air conditioner in my 2000 Daewoo Nubira Wagon completely shit itself. In fact, it not only went on strike, it went on the attack by blowing hot air at me. Around that time, the electric drivers’ window also refused to open. Sometimes, when it wasn’t in a particular mood, it would open and

not shut, but it rarely co-operated in full.

So there I was, 3 kids, 40 degree hot hair blowing directly in my face like a hairdryer, my window steadfastly refusing to budge and a $2000 bill on the cards to fix my $2000 car. A couple of meltdowns that included me rocking in the corner later, and we decided it was time to bite the bullet and get a new car.

As we could only afford so much, or more, as we were being incredibly tight, we decided the smallest car in the Honda range would fit us as a family of 5. The Honda Jazz. Anyway that is a very long path to get to my main goal of telling you I got my very first ever brand new car and then someone crashed into it.

I had been out all day. I had dropped two kids off to school. I had picked Mum up and we had gone to a gazillion different places over the Gold Coast that as per usual, left me no time to go home and vacuum the house on my day off. Shame.

After dropping Mum home, I went back to school and carefully parked my car and walked in to the school to pick up the kidlets. This was only 3 weeks after I had purchased the car so of course, the kids were on a food ban inside it, so too were we having a texta, play doh and Lego embargo. I had washed it every weekend; I had vacuumed it lovingly and gone off my chops when the middle child emptied his sand filled sneakers onto the backseat of the car.

It was early days. Then some bitch ran in to it.

I had packed three kids into it and had driven all the way home before I realised. For some reason I went back out to the car, probably to just stare at it (kidding) and that’s when I realised, the front of the car was seriously fucked. How had I missed this? Could I be that dense that I didn’t hear the noise that would have sounded like a bomb going off when I hit what appears to be a silver pole?

I spent the next 30 minutes crapping myself and offhandedly dropped the bomb to my husband after he got home from work. Fortunately, as well as a plumber, it appears my husband is serious crash investigator because the first thing he said to me was “Nah mate, someone has backed into you”. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

So I was looking down the barrel of an insurance claim that I would have to cop the brunt of, both ratings and monetary wise. Bloody bastards. Not to mention, my car had been deflowered. Do to her what you want people, she is no longer pure.

Some weeks later, I was walking in to pick up Sam and one of the Mum’s I’m friendly with said, “Oh, that’s your car!” I probably looked at her a bit blankly. Blink Blink.

“Do you know how you got that massive dent in the front of it?”

Me: “No, someone ran into it, but don’t know who.

C’s Mum “I do”

She went on to tell me how her and another mum had been walking into the school when, let’s call her Lorena the Moron or LTM for short, had tried to reverse park into a non-existent parking spot between my car and the one behind me. Clearly she didn’t make it as a) she’s not a Polly Pocket and b) there was a massive fucking dent in my car with her paint all over it. C’s Mum then led me to LTM’'s car to show me my paint on her rear, smashed, bumper. What the Hell.

So, being the non-confrontational and peace loving person I am, I left a note on her windshield. You know – “Hey, I believe you smashed into my car a couple of weeks ago and I now need your insurance details to get this fixed”.

Nada

I knew who she was. She was the mum who used to, rather than get off her arse, shout at her son to stop throwing sticks at classroom windows. I knew of her well before she slammed into my car. It was often this “Benjamin, Benjamin! Git ere Benjamin. Put that rock down Benjamin! Don’t hit that boy, that’s not nice Benjamin. Cmmmmeeerre!!!. Um how about this mole, get off you arse, discipline your child and stop him from touching my child.

My car wasn’t the first to meet with LTM either. Another ladies car was backed into and a stationery motorbike was knocked over. Or course, I learned all of this much later.

So, I thought, I’m just going to have to confront her. I really didn’t want to. She was unhinged at the best of times, fairly big Nurofen Plus addiction but she never showed. What I didn’t want was for hew to get anywhere near my vulnerable son, Sam.

I attempted again with the note on the windscreen. More forceful this time. “If you do not contact me by 5pm today, I will have no other choice but to go to the Police”. Then I sat, covert like, around the corner, watched her grab it off her windscreen, scrunch it up, and throw it on the ground. Oh it was on.

So I went to the Police station. Stood in line for over an hour whilst various grievances were aired and people on parole checked in. My turn. Explained my sitch. The young police man grabbed the phone and said “let’s see who owns this car then shall we”. Apparently her boyfriend gave her the car. He was in Melbourne. Awesome.

Look, long story short, the boyfriend tried to get me to say it was him who backed into me – Um NO. I asked him if she was pissed or on drugs. His response

“No, just a very nervous driver”. Well how’s this, I don’t’ want a nervous driver around my kids at school thanks. His next sentence?

“You’re lucky you didn’t confront her actually, she can get quite aggressive”. Um sorry, I’m the one she backed into and then fucked off on and SHE gets aggressive?

I got the details, got my car fixed and constantly got mega death stares from LTM.

But the spell was broken for me and my new car. Our dog scratched the bonnet about 6 months later, badly and I barely cared. No less than 6 trolleys have gone into it in car parks. My stilettos have ripped their way through the carpet in the driver’s seat. Meh. It get’s washed 6 monthly if it’s lucky.

It's sad for my poor Jazz. Innocent victim in the scheme of things. Kind of like me.