Ah, the joys of having one's own motorised transportation. While I admire the Lemon's (she of the sadly departed Lemonade Stand) public spirited committment to non-car-ownership, 4 months of standing on freezing station platforms, squinting at frankly bizarre bus timetables and taking lifts from friends who regard the A24 as their own personal drag strip has dulled my ambitions to save the world through reducing my consumption of fossil fuels.
And I miss my old Scirocco. I mean, I tried to recreate the old "will it or won't it?" uncertainty that I got everytime I tried to start it by trying to catch trains that run to a timetable designed with that particular British brand of incompetence. But it wasn't the same.
So now I have a Golf. And as one might expect, I already have some observations. The first is to do with the instrumentation. This car has a miles-per-gallon measurement. Why? If I cared in the slightest about the fuel economy of the vehicle, I wouldn't have gone for the one that dumps so much power down on the road that the wheels spin whenever I stomp on the go pedal. If I'd cared, I would have bought the sensible diesel and caressed the gas pedal rather than mash it into the floor at every opportunity. If I ever find myself sitting in a pub and saying something like "Oh yes, if I maintain a steady 55mph in the top gear, I can get over 70 miles per gallon, you know" I need to be shot. In fact, I shall this very day pen a living will to that effect.
No, the only benefit of this gauge is so I can laugh my head off as it drops into single figures while the car ricochets down empty country roads. Forget miles per gallon - a little light to indicate that my rabid abuse of the environment has caused God to kill another fluffy kitten would be much better.
I'm sure I'll get bored of it soon.
