She says...

Press, 15 October 1976, Page 6

She says...

In all honesty I try not to have prejudices. At least not too many, anyway, and not where things like cars and people are concerned. But why is it, I wonder, that guys with souped up cars seem to end up spending all their time getting them to go? And why is it that the guys who scream up to the lights, jam on their brakes, and drag everyone else off when the lights change seem to drive cars like old model Zephyrs? I’ve done it now, so I may as well stick with the theme. For a school friend of mine the end of her first romance came when her parents discovered that their daughter was being transported in a noisy old Mark I Zephyr. Not that Zephyrs are the exclusive market of the young and boisterous. I’m not sure "what make of car it was that accosted me as I drove through a peaceful Christchurch city last Saturday afternoon, but it was big (and flashy) enough to hold a number of giggling teen-agers.

One is not really accustomed to being shouted at by fellow drivers, but my calm response turned to anger as I watched the vehicle weave all over the road, almost push a motor-cyclist through a red light, and generally threaten the safety of everyone else in sight. I wished there was some way I could warn those on the road in front of me of the danger, but of course I could only cringe far behind and watch the reckless display. Why is it usually the innocent party that seems to get hurt when the crunch comes? Hotted up cars are another thing altogether of course. The only one I’ve driven was fine except that it had a mysterious recurring illness which usually manifested itself when someone particularly needed to use it. The refined state of the motor apparently made the problem rather difficult to diagnose. What was I saying about hot car freaks spending all their time on their cars: — Morag.