Well, the day had finally arrived.

Christine had to go home.

After all we’d been through together, I was actually rather sad about it.

For those who haven’t met Christine, she’s my bright red Peugeot 208 GT hybrid hire car, named after the possessed car in the Stephen King horror film.

And believe me, the name was well deserved.

Our relationship hadn’t exactly got off to a promising start.

When we first met in the dark airport car park, I couldn’t find her, couldn’t find the start button, couldn’t find the handbrake and couldn’t even find the bloody speedometer.

Her steering wheel was attempting to amputate my thighs, her seat had been adjusted for a hobbit and she appeared to have been programmed by somebody with a rather questionable sense of humour.

But over the following days, we’d gradually come to understand one another.

Sort of.

Christine still had her little ways.

For instance, every time I walked anywhere near her, she’d get terribly excited.

Her wing mirrors would flap about, she’d lock and unlock herself, and generally behave as though I’d returned from a six-month expedition.

Even if I’d only popped outside to put the rubbish in the bin.

It was actually rather sweet.

Like having a dog that wagged its tail every time it saw you.

Except Christine weighed considerably more, had four wheels and occasionally tried to take control of the steering.

I’d become quite fond of her.

One Last Meal

Before taking Christine back to the airport, I had to make sure she went home with a full belly.

It’s one of the rules of hiring a car.

You collect it full and return it full.

Fair enough.

So off we went to the local petrol station.

I pulled up beside an empty pump, got out, picked up the nozzle and waited.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I looked towards the cashier.

No response.

I stood there patiently holding the nozzle, wondering whether I’d somehow forgotten how petrol stations worked.

After all, Christine had already introduced me to several modern motoring concepts that apparently hadn’t existed when I last drove regularly in Britain.

Perhaps petrol pumps now required a password.

Or facial recognition.

Or a small introductory interview.

I waited some more.

Eventually, a lovely gentleman with a wonderful, exotic accent came to my rescue.

Apparently, I had chosen a pay-at-the-pump-only pump.

Of course I had.

And I needed to pay at the cashier.

Naturally.

The gentleman very kindly suggested that I use the pump on the other side instead.

There was just one slight problem.

Christine was on the wrong side.

Not to worry, he assured me.

The hose would reach.

He proceeded to pass the hose through a gap in a girder, across to Christine, assuring me there was plenty of length.

I wasn’t entirely convinced.

But somehow, between us, the girder and an impressive amount of hose manoeuvring, we managed to feed her.

And do you know what?

She wasn’t even particularly hungry.

She took far less petrol than I’d expected.

Which was rather surprising considering the price.

Judging by the amount I paid, I can only assume Christine had been dining on Beluga caviar, white truffles and champagne.

Perhaps a little gold leaf sprinkled on top.

Honestly.

I don’t know what they put in petrol these days, but at those prices I expected somebody to come out and present it to her on a silver platter.

Still, she was full.

And we were ready for our final journey together.

Back Where It All Began

We set off towards the airport.

And as we drove, I couldn’t help thinking about how different this journey was from our first one.

That first day, I’d been absolutely terrified.

I was driving in Britain for the first time in years, in a car that appeared to have a mind of its own, with no visible speedometer and absolutely no idea what half the controls did.

Now here I was, driving confidently back towards the very place where we’d met.

I’d mastered her strange dashboard.

I’d learned to accept her habit of switching herself off whenever she felt like it.

I’d become accustomed to her occasional attempts to intervene in my driving.

And I’d even stopped being surprised when she waved her mirrors at me.

We’d come a long way, Christine and me.

Admittedly, some of that distance had been travelled while I was arguing with her.

But we’d made it.

Eventually, we arrived back at the airport.

And there it was.

The dark multi-storey car park.

The scene of our first encounter.

The place where I’d spent an eternity trying to find her, followed by another eternity trying to work out how to drive her.

It seemed rather fitting that our relationship should end where it began.

Although this time, at least, I knew where the handbrake was.

Cutting the Umbilical Cord

I parked Christine in the returns area.

Switched off the engine.

And sat for a moment.

There was one final thing I had to do.

I needed to remove my phone and personal profile from her system.

After all, we couldn’t have Christine getting confused and trying to contact me after I’d gone.

So I went through her settings and began deleting the evidence of our time together.

My phone.

My profile.

Our connection.

One by one, they disappeared.

I was cutting the umbilical cord.

And then something rather sad happened.

Christine stopped recognising me.

No more excited wing mirrors.

No more enthusiastic locking and unlocking.

No little signs of affection when I approached.

Nothing.

I was just another person standing beside a red Peugeot.

She didn’t know me any more.

After everything we’d been through.

Heartless little cow.

The Final Inspection

There was still one final ordeal to endure.

The check-in man.

I stood there nervously while he inspected Christine.

I hoped she hadn’t acquired any unexpected modifications during our time together.

A new scratch.

A mysterious dent.

An unexplained alteration to her anatomy.

I’d done my very best to look after her, but Christine had always been a rather independent creature.

Who knew what she might have got up to when I wasn’t looking?

Fortunately, everything appeared to be in order.

He handed me something to sign.

And just like that, it was official.

Our relationship was over.

No ceremony.

No farewell speech.

Not even a small bunch of flowers.

Just a signature on a form.

After all those miles together, all those narrow Hampshire roads, the mysterious dashboard settings, the petrol station negotiations and the occasional disagreement about who was actually driving…

That was it.

Christine was no longer mine.

Goodbye, Old Girl

I picked up my luggage and started walking towards the train station.

I looked back.

There she was.

My beautiful, bright red Christine.

Sitting quietly in the car park.

No mirror wagging.

No flashing lights.

No sign that she even knew I was leaving.

Just another hire car waiting for somebody new.

Somebody who would climb into her driver’s seat, press the start button and drive away.

Somebody who wouldn’t know about our adventures.

Who wouldn’t know how hard we’d worked to understand each other.

Who wouldn’t know that underneath all that complicated technology and occasional alarming behaviour, there was a little red car with quite a personality.

Perhaps her next driver would appreciate her immediately.

Perhaps they’d understand all her buttons.

Perhaps they’d even know where the speedometer was.

I hoped they’d be kind to her.

And I hoped she’d behave herself.

Although, knowing Christine, I wouldn’t count on it.

I turned and walked away.

For the first time since we’d met, she didn’t wave goodbye.

And somehow, that was the saddest part of all.

Goodbye, Christine.

You were difficult, demanding, occasionally terrifying and quite possibly possessed.

But you were my little red companion through some wonderful adventures.

And I shall miss you.

I wonder how long it will take her to forget me.

Oh.

She already has.