On its last tires

I don't own a car. I haven't since 1993. There was a period of several months once, I wasn't even in a car thanks to the great public transportation system in Geneva.

However, my housemate, who lives about 20 minutes outside the city, does.

In its 13th year, the car is on its last tires. The driver's window may decide not to go up. The clutch considers engaging optional. There are knicks and the fender is hanging a bit like a sagging woman's breasts.

The mechanic has ruled it terminal.

Since the car is due for its costly inspection, now is the time for her to replace it.

I've lived almost 10 years with the car and although cars hold little interest to me, this one is an old friend. I have driven it from time to time, although before my eye surgery I didn't because my sight was limited. When I did drive it, it was a lovely handling car, that didn't seem to mind my infrequent times of being behind the wheel.

So many memories in the car and to name a few and smile before the car disappears forever:

• The sudden sushi attacks and the ride  into town rather than wait for the bus
• The long trip to Northern Germany to research my book
• The mountain curves on the way to a chalet
• The trips to the airport to collect this or that person
• The radio playing nostalgic songs or DVDs of Il Divo, Streisand and Elton John
• Picking up No. 2 son after music lessons and getting lost in the wilds of Corsier
• The times after a train ride from Argelès when it was waiting for me behind Starbucks.