Baby, You Can Clean My Car.

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God, I hate washing cars.

The Missus’ Peugeot has needed a bit of a wash & brush up since she had the misfortune to park it underneath the branches of a tree which appears to have been home to an incontinent Albatross.
So this evening I decided to bite the bullet and remove half a metric tonne of avian excrement from the flanks of her family runabout.

Normally I’d have taken it down the road to the incredibly fast & admirably industrious team of Eastern Europeans who will leap on your car & have it sparkling (door shuts and all) within about ten minutes – £7 very well spent I reckon.
But this evening, with it being past their knocking off time & being unable to ignore the fact that SWMBO’s car was increasingly reminiscent of a plasterer’s radio, I dug out the hose reel & bucket..

After about 20 minutes of hosing & vigorous shampoo-ing it was looking a bit more metallic red and a bit less bird-shit white and I made what I regard as the correct & rational decision to quit whilst I was ahead & skip the chamois stage – primarily because:

I. Could. Not. Be. Arsed.

Like I said earlier, I hate washing cars but this little reminder was a worthwhile demonstration to me that seven quid is a small amount to pay for an infinitely better finish than I’ll ever be able to achieve and I’m helping the local economy into the bargain.

So there.

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