now I can't see it. It must have already driven past, I decide, looking at the line of traffic streaming through the traffic lights.
'God, we're going back years now…'
'To 1997,' I say automatically.
'Aye, that's right. Bloody hell, you've got a good memory,' he chuckles, sounding impressed.
'Mine's like a sieve these days.'
'Well, can you remember who you sold it to?'
'Now that I do remember…'
I wait expectantly, my mind running through people I know in the village to whom he might have sold my old car. Not that I've spent much time there in years, but for the life of me I can't remember anyone else having long, dark, curly hair. Actually, what about the girl who works in the fish and chip shop? No, that was more of a shoulder-length perm. Plus if she's working behind the counter battering cod, what on earth is she doing driving around West London?
'… We had it scrapped.'
Startled by his reply, I'm momentarily blown off course.
'But I've seen it in London,' I reply, quickly recovering.
'You can't have done, luv. It failed its MOT so I sold it to a scrap merchant. I remember.'
'I thought your memory was like a sieve,' I remind him teasingly.
'I might have a bad memory, but I'm not bloody senile,' he grumbles. 'I towed it there myself.'
'Well someone must have fixed it up,' I reply stubbornly.
'I saw it being scrapped with my own eyes.'
He's so adamant that for a moment I almost wobble.
'That's impossible,' I argue.
'What's impossible is you seeing it around London.'
This has turned into another one of our arguments. Dad's wrong, and as usual he won't admit it.
'Dad, you're wrong .'
'No, I'm not. You're wrong.'
Argh. I feel a familiar burst of impatience. This always happens. We go back and forth for hours and nobody ever wins, unless—
Suddenly I get a flash of inspiration. This time I'm going to prove I'm right. Slamming my foot on the accelerator, I pull down sharply on the steering wheel and do a U-turn in the middle of the road.
I'm going to follow it.
'It's probably been made into tin cans by now,' my dad is chuckling down the phone. Damn. Where did it go? My vision is blocked by a large truck in front of me. Then I glimpse it. Just ahead of me. A flash of orange turning down a side street. Trapped behind the truck, I edge slowly forwards until finally…
Indicating left, I pull off the diversion and shoot down a narrow, leafy street in hot pursuit. Just in time to see the tail-lights disappearing round a corner. Cursing under my breath, I race after it. It's a blind corner and as I zoom under a railway bridge, I pop out on to a main road. And there's the Beetle, waiting at the pedestrian crossing. I pull out and up behind it. Now I can see the number plate as clear as day.
'See, Dad, you're wrong,' I say jubilantly. 'MUG 403P. That's my old number plate!'
Ha-ha! Dad is going to have to eat his words!
Only there's silence on the other end of the line.
' Dad ?' Frowning, I glance at the screen on my phone; there's no reception. How annoying! That keeps happening to me.
Making a mental note to call the phone company and complain, I stuff it in the centre console and switch my attentions back to the Beetle, which has pulled away from the crossing. For a moment I entertain turning round, going back the way I came. After all, I've seen the number plate now. It has to be my old car. There's no other explanation.
Then again, I have come this far. And now I am kind of curious to find out who's driving… Plus if I'm to win this argument with Dad, I'm going to need hard evidence and I've got a camera on my mobile.
A few minutes later and we're zipping down leafy streets in Camden, North London. Now an expensive area, it used to be my neighbourhood when I first moved to London. Way back when you could rent a room for £50 a week, I shared a rambling terrace house with six others on a little dead-end street, tucked away behind the back of a church.
In fact, this is exactly the same route I
'God, we're going back years now…'
'To 1997,' I say automatically.
'Aye, that's right. Bloody hell, you've got a good memory,' he chuckles, sounding impressed.
'Mine's like a sieve these days.'
'Well, can you remember who you sold it to?'
'Now that I do remember…'
I wait expectantly, my mind running through people I know in the village to whom he might have sold my old car. Not that I've spent much time there in years, but for the life of me I can't remember anyone else having long, dark, curly hair. Actually, what about the girl who works in the fish and chip shop? No, that was more of a shoulder-length perm. Plus if she's working behind the counter battering cod, what on earth is she doing driving around West London?
'… We had it scrapped.'
Startled by his reply, I'm momentarily blown off course.
'But I've seen it in London,' I reply, quickly recovering.
'You can't have done, luv. It failed its MOT so I sold it to a scrap merchant. I remember.'
'I thought your memory was like a sieve,' I remind him teasingly.
'I might have a bad memory, but I'm not bloody senile,' he grumbles. 'I towed it there myself.'
'Well someone must have fixed it up,' I reply stubbornly.
'I saw it being scrapped with my own eyes.'
He's so adamant that for a moment I almost wobble.
'That's impossible,' I argue.
'What's impossible is you seeing it around London.'
This has turned into another one of our arguments. Dad's wrong, and as usual he won't admit it.
'Dad, you're wrong .'
'No, I'm not. You're wrong.'
Argh. I feel a familiar burst of impatience. This always happens. We go back and forth for hours and nobody ever wins, unless—
Suddenly I get a flash of inspiration. This time I'm going to prove I'm right. Slamming my foot on the accelerator, I pull down sharply on the steering wheel and do a U-turn in the middle of the road.
I'm going to follow it.
'It's probably been made into tin cans by now,' my dad is chuckling down the phone. Damn. Where did it go? My vision is blocked by a large truck in front of me. Then I glimpse it. Just ahead of me. A flash of orange turning down a side street. Trapped behind the truck, I edge slowly forwards until finally…
Indicating left, I pull off the diversion and shoot down a narrow, leafy street in hot pursuit. Just in time to see the tail-lights disappearing round a corner. Cursing under my breath, I race after it. It's a blind corner and as I zoom under a railway bridge, I pop out on to a main road. And there's the Beetle, waiting at the pedestrian crossing. I pull out and up behind it. Now I can see the number plate as clear as day.
'See, Dad, you're wrong,' I say jubilantly. 'MUG 403P. That's my old number plate!'
Ha-ha! Dad is going to have to eat his words!
Only there's silence on the other end of the line.
' Dad ?' Frowning, I glance at the screen on my phone; there's no reception. How annoying! That keeps happening to me.
Making a mental note to call the phone company and complain, I stuff it in the centre console and switch my attentions back to the Beetle, which has pulled away from the crossing. For a moment I entertain turning round, going back the way I came. After all, I've seen the number plate now. It has to be my old car. There's no other explanation.
Then again, I have come this far. And now I am kind of curious to find out who's driving… Plus if I'm to win this argument with Dad, I'm going to need hard evidence and I've got a camera on my mobile.
A few minutes later and we're zipping down leafy streets in Camden, North London. Now an expensive area, it used to be my neighbourhood when I first moved to London. Way back when you could rent a room for £50 a week, I shared a rambling terrace house with six others on a little dead-end street, tucked away behind the back of a church.
In fact, this is exactly the same route I
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