Please stop asking me about my car. I’m sick of it.
Everyone leave me alone for like five minutes. I swear to god.
There’s too much happening in the world.
The incredibly long journey faced by the Goulburn Valley cleaning up from the floods and the problems that has exposed — the need for another river crossing, services being centralised in Shepparton and not across the river, Greater Shepparton’s stormwater system... I could go on.
The election. Remember that thing? It’s still chugging along, and regional Victorians are still having very important issues and concerns not being addressed.
Elon Musk bought Twitter, which most people don’t care about but I find fascinating for what it reveals about power and communication (and also because it’s very funny).
But I’m lending my voice to none of that this week. It can all cope on its own just for a little bit, because I’m very tired of dealing with Important Things after the last month, and also people won’t shut up about my car and I’m sick of it.
Also yes, this is a new car, not the one which died in in June. Please stop asking, I beg of you.
This car did, however, die within 2km of where the last one did on the Hume Hwy, but wasn’t dead enough that I couldn’t limp into Broadford at 2pm on Friday... only to find the mechanic there shuts at 1pm every Friday.
That’s the story. That’s all the information I have for you. The car was going, then it didn’t want to go, then after that it shuddered a bit and then refused to go any faster than 60km/h without quite indignant protest.
No, the oil was full. The water was full. This, unlike the last time, was not a me problem. I do not know what the problem is. Go away. Scram, kid.
So this is a public letter — to my colleagues, to my friends, to my mum, to the people on Twitter who I stupidly informed that my car has once again kicked the bucket — asking everyone to get off my lawn.
Now you might say it’s my own fault for putting up a 15-part Instagram story and a Tweet and telling a bunch of people, and if I hadn’t then people might stop asking me about my car.
But you see, dear reader, I thought of that. I considered just keeping it quiet, and just told my mum, aunt and cousin that I would be late to dinner in Melbourne and informed my grandparents I would need to reschedule afternoon tea.
Then I told my editor I might need to take Wednesday off to take a train to Broadford.
Within seconds, three family members and four colleagues had messaged separately of any group chats.
Everyone already knew, you see, so I thought I’d put the record straight. However, shockingly, this lead to more people inquiring about details I simply didn’t have.
I still don’t have those details, and as a result of everyone, have been forced to pen this column.
I could have solved world peace in this column. I could have given an important voice to thousands upon thousands of regional Victorians. I could have written something funnier than whatever this is!
And now, because everyone won’t get the hell off my lawn, here I am asking you to please, please stop asking about my car.