Goodbye, Gorgeous Nightmare
My Range Rover saga.
I’ve officially had it with my Range Rover.
It looks stunning, purrs like a dream, glides like royalty – but it’s done. After endless mechanical disasters, I’m scrapping it, better deal or not. A true tragedy, because this beauty deserved more.
Instead, it’s become a toxic ex, never letting me find happiness or peace.
The last straw was almost comical, if it weren’t so irritating. Took the Mrs. for a routine doctor’s visit, parked up, planning to take work calls in the car afterward. Came back, and it was dead. A three-mile trek later, drenched by London’s spring downpours, I returned with jump leads. Lo and behold, without any intervention from me or the shiny new jump leads, the car sprang to life. Ecstatic, I headed to get it checked out. Nothing like a professional appraisal eh?
Three garages later, all booked up, I double-parked at the last one. They agreed to help, but by then, dead again. Stranded in the rush hour frenzy, horns screaming, I felt the universe mocking me.
After yet another miraculous jump start by the kindly mechanic, and under strict instructions to not turn off the engine ever, the Mrs. had to execute a Hollywood-worthy hop into the moving vehicle.
