WHAT LIES BENEATH
LIFE ON THE street must be brutal for humans, and a relentless
battle for survival for dogs. But it’s also deeply unkind to cars.
The search for a low-budget first vehicle for my 17-year-old
daughter had taken us to (and past) scruffy, unloved Suzuki
Swifts, a clunky Honda Jazz, and a parked-by-ear Yaris that had
covered all of the miles to the moon and back. Eventually it led
us to a 2009 K12 Nissan Micra in Sydney’s inner west.
Life on the street had knocked the shine out of its mint-green
paint; crap and grime and leaves and sap had found their way
into its most intimate reaches. Ageing outdoors can be unkind.
The seller was a mid-40s chap named Guiliano, and he was
visibly downcast as he explained the car had belonged to his
mum since new, but it had to be sold now, as she had passed
away suddenly earlier this year. It was the final piece of her
estate; his last physical link to her memory. He apologised for
not having made any effort to prepare it for sale. “I just haven’t
had it in me,” he said despondently. But he knew what I really
wanted to know. “It might not look like it now, but she did love
it,” he said. “She was really meticulous about the maintenance.”
The logbook in the glovebox testified to this, and the odo had
half the kays of similar cars from the same period. The dipstick
showed the oil was a rich caramel colour, and as I squeezed
underneath the little Nissan with a torch, everything looked
tidy and straight.
So I forced myself to look past the grottiness and the dinged
bumper, and we did the deal in his kitchen over an excellent
coffee. As we said our goodbyes on the street, Guiliano said,
“Look after it for me,” and I knew he
really meant it. We parted with an only
slightly awkward man-hug.
My daughter and I got it home and
went straight to work with the high-
pressure cleaner and an entire career’s
worth of free-sample car-care products.
It was deeply therapeutic, blasting
away years of cosmetic neglect. It was
also a great bonding time, not just with
my daughter, who was poppin’ like a
whack-a-mole, but with the car itself. As I dug leaves out of
the scuttle, and degreased the doorjambs, I found myself in a
mental conversation with this little Pommy-built 1.4, in a way
only other car people could understand. I had a stern word
with it about upholding Japanese mechanical integrity, and as
I cut through the cloudy haze of its headlights with the electric
polisher, opening its ‘eyes’ for the first time in years, I also
wanted it to know just how irreplaceable its human cargo was:
“Now listen, you little ANCAP underachiever, if you let anything
bad happen to my girl, I’m gonna gut you with a plasma cutter...”
With the law laid down, I started attacking the interior. First
it needed clearing of the detritus, and the rear-seat pockets
gave up more snippets of the last good years Guiliano’s mum
had enjoyed. The receipts for her Carnival Cruise to New
Caledonia in 2018; the set menu of a wedding she’d been to in- As I binned them, I felt that real transition of our little
car embarking on its next phase of life.
Four hours later, the metallic-green paint had a deep lustre;
the tyres glowed gloss black; the glasshouse sparkled, and the
interior was immaculate. I even unbolted the rear bumper and,
with a bit of gentle persuasion, the big ding returned to shape
with a satisfying pop. After a quick trip to Repco for new wheel
trims and number-plate frames, the bobble-eyed minty Micra
was shining like a new pin.
Finally Sisi pulled me away, unable to hold back any longer
for the must-have Instagram selfie with her little green freedom
machine. It wasreminiscent of a prized photo of 17-year-old me,
standing proudly with my Mini Cooper S in
83,except she was not sporting a tragic,
t-punk mohawk and tartan trousers.
Shewasn’t the only one who posted a
. I sent a photo of her with the car to
iliano, with a short note to say thanks,
d how happy we were with how the car
d scrubbed up. “I hope your mum would
pleased,” I wrote.
“That’sawesome,”Guilianowroteback.
he’ssmiling.”
sta
198S
can“
“S@wheelsaustralia 29
“NOW LISTEN, YOU LITTLE ANCAP UNDERACHIEVER,
IF YOU LET ANYTHING BAD HAPPEN TO MY GIRL,
I’M GONNA GUT YOU WITH A PLASMA CUTTER...”