I hate Autumn* because it brings with it a slow death to life and light. Three months of decay and dark aren’t even the worst part – that special place in my heart is reserved for the million car drivers who cherish the idea of a dead cyclist for Christmas.

And then we have the chronologically inaccurate “shortest day” or the slightly more caftan “Winter Solstice“. It brings with it a false dawn, which continues to creep into the day for a couple more weeks, and not much else.

Follow that up with a week long period of things unwanted; presents, relatives and marketing confused with sales. This is a once in a year opportunity to get both fatter and poorer while a recent Honours crony cackles – dragon like – on their hoard. Only smugger and with slightly more arrogance.

So they call this the festive season. And if giving is better than receiving, I’m bloody delighted to dispense with the whole arse of a thing for another year. And as giving segues into giving up, then we’re starting 2008 with slightly less cars.

As I’ve alluded to Autumn is traditionally a dying time. Dead leaves fall to the ground, dead cats get buried underground except for Schrodinger’s of course. That animal, in my considerable experience, is neither alive or dead – rather extremely pissed off and ready for a frenzied kill.

Anyway, it seems the positive karma of adding ever more new frames to Al’s pantheon of benign insanity, has had a negative effect on other household transport. Specifically Carol’s car which, after ten years of constant abuse, has finally succumbed in a mechanically mirrored biorhythm of the long stiff mog. Small stuff started to go wrong before, one day, it emitted neither light nor sound regardless of the brutal electric shock treatment of the jump leads.

Anyway it’s suffered enough so we’re going to put it out of its’ misery and, until we’re safely back from New Zealand, we’ll be doing with just the one. This means more testicle shrivelling commuting for me, which is absolutely fine as it is about time I rediscovered my “Inner Notherner“. I’ve been far to nice to people lately, and I’m worried this may have set false expectations.

But come March, our new car buying strategy will be based on a continuing sexual innuendo purchasing approach. After the Wanga, we have a Jazz. Great little car, and I’ve already asked Carol if she would like a big pink one. Although the metaphor breaks down – a little – once I’d enquired if it’d take six inches of bulging frame in the rear.

* Yes I know it is officially winter. What of it? Accuracy is hardly the bedrock of the hedgehog is it? I’ve been cogitating. As in old-cogitating.