Selling my second vehicle was a far nicer experience than selling my first. To get an RWC in Ringwood last week was no problem. My first car went to a bunch of kids down the road from where I used to live, they were going to use it as a paddock bomb. I waved a silent, horrified goodbye to that car and the memories we’d shared, I knew it was time to move on. I’d let it go for $200 measly bucks.

My second car was treated with much more respect. I’d wanted to make an impression when I bought it, and I’m pleased to gloat about how well the duco kept after five years of ownership. I felt completely confident it was a safe car when I booked in to get a roadworthy certificate. “Ringwood has a mechanic who won’t let you down,” said Dad. I took his word for it and booked.

Earlier last year when I visited my hometown, I drove past the house where the kids lived who’d bought my first car. And there she was, parked in the corner of the dustbowl paddock, surrounded by suffolk ewes and long grass. Someone had spray-painted the numbers 89 on the side in electric blue. The sun beating down on the bent up bonnet and the dashboard was cracked like a creek bed. Some of the band stickers I plastered to the back window still clung on, curled and feathering at the edges. It looked like it hadn’t been moved in years.

Observing my first love from the comfort of my brand new car didn’t dull the pangs that came with remembering how much fun I had had in that car, and how different things were. But it did look as though it had lived to see a lot of fun after I sold it. Some things aren’t supposed to change, I guess.