Brooke and I have been together for fourteen years. She has been at my side as youth and vigour have slowly failed us both, and I have nursed her through the ailments that inevitably plague a classy French dame.
After all the years, the dents and the damage, the four times around the earth we have driven together, the overloaded trips to the tip which broke my back and her suspension, she is still willing and eager. Somehow there is no group of people too large, no burden too great for her to carry.
We know the end is nigh, we only travel a few miles together now at the weekends running errands and ferrying the kids. She starts up first time, every time. In deference to the spiders that live in her wing mirrors we don’t drive too fast anymore, but we remember all the speeding tickets.
She’s quite partial to Celine Dion, so for her sake when we are alone together I’ll belt out It’s All Coming Back To Me Now at the top of my lungs and she’ll accompany me with squeaky springs.
As for the name, well what else would you call a Blue Laguna?