I Bought a Stupid Car

I'm 25.

I've always been overly responsible with money. The only debt I've ever had is a student loan. Unlike most graduates, I actually feel like my career path has been directly influenced by what I did at university.

I wanted to be a writer, so I chose a course that allowed me to write about things I was actually interested in.

Ancient and Medieval History.

It's like Game of Thrones, but it actually happened.

And before you start to tell me that there is no such thing as magic or dragons, try telling that to the population of 7th Century England. They believed in all kinds of crazy shit.

Anyway, I'm rambling. The point of this story was that, so far in life, I have always done the sensible thing - I was never the cool kid with the car who could drive everyone at college to McDonalds.

I've never given myself a project or something to care about. It was always: Go forward - enjoy it later.

Well fuck that. I want something. I want something that is going to help my mental health, because relationships sure as shit don't do that.

So I bought a car. Not just any car. I bought a classic mini. Something that I can tinker with, change the interior, fix oil leaks and turn into my own. It's not a fucking Golf that i'll drive for a couple of years and then sell.

It's like a pair of good leather shoes or a great jacket - it's not like the new iPhone.

It's not going to be irrelevant in two years.

It's virtually the same age as me. It has had its own life, met it's own people, and i'm sure, to someone, it has already been that thing that helped.

And it is really fucking fun to drive.