Folks, last weekend I polished my car. That’s right, the fun just never ends here at Bray Manor.
My old polishing cloth is like a magic wand, as soon as I whip it out, my family vanishes. Even the dog hightails it elsewhere before she’s pressed into service as a back-up buffer.
Anyway, here in the Lucky Country the sun doesn’t shine, it microwaves, so the paintjob of any car parked outside on a daily basis tends to quickly fade then turn to chalk.
Regular polishing the only way to remove the build-up of grime, return my car’s paintwork to its’ former glory and add a protective layer over the duco. It’s also a peaceful way to kill a couple of hours while doing something useful; in the shade.
Because, the temperature outside may be hot enough to melt an empty beer can on the driveway, but that’s no reason to let standards drop. Also, the act of polishing my car is the closest I’ll ever get to achieving enlightenment.
It’s almost a religious ritual, kneeling down and rhythmically waving my arms about while purging the stains from my cars’ paintwork. To the untrained eye it might look like I’m zoning out, but in reality, I’m sorting through my mental filing cabinet. Tossing out the rubbish and allowing my mind to follow various trains of thought and see where they lead.
It’s not often I get a chance to really think while enjoying an uninterrupted beer or two as well.
I’ll solve problems, make decisions or replay recent conversations. The same thing happens when I’m mowing, painting or doing any number of mundane tasks which won’t mean a jot in fifty years’ time.
By then all that will be left to show (hopefully) of my time on earth, are some old photos of me, leaning against a variety of gleaming cars, dressed in clothes that will someday be turned into polishing cloths.
It’s not much of a legacy I suppose, but last weeks’ polishing helped me write these words and that’s something I hope will rub off on future generations.