… fucking vespa’s.

I need to make a confession before I share anything else. I did something last week that has left me seriously contemplating whether or not my driving license should be revoked or if it’s just one of those everyday mishaps that come our way every now and again. It also concerns a certain habit forming over-the-counter addiction that resulted in this fender-bending accident and my sudden craving for all things Tyler Brûlé.Obviously an open mind is necessary. And a sense of humour. Imagine my trying to kills some time before taking my Italian mother to the airport to catch an international flight later in the afternoon. With an hour to kill, and it being the first time that I’d left the townhouse all week, I decided to hit 24-Central and a certain Portuguese inspired barista. Three lattes, two newspapers, and one hour later I was ready to go get Mamma. Instead I got something else.Dressed in my ‘under the radar’ stressed jeans, polo shirt (the real deal baby) and sandals I clearly was the odd one out amongst a crowd of bankers, lawyers, and corporate junkies all in casual Friday dress-down suits. In and out in under 7,5mins excluding parking of course which had to be a miracle and as I started up the V12 engine of the Land Rover Discovery nothing would prepare me for what was to come.Thinking I was cooler than a Zurich Badi in July, I cranked up the music put the car into reverse and eased out of the parking bay. While I didn’t quite feel the bump, I did hear the notable and unmistakable sounds of collision. Panic! I checked the rear-view mirror: nothing. I checked the side-mirror: nothing. So I got out and walked towards the back of the car and what was turning out to be a white and chrome barnacle attached the back bumper.A fucking vintage Vespa! Somehow this had missed every mirror I had looked into while easing out and the bumper-sensors designed to avoid this kind of manoeuvring. And yes for the record I realise that the beeping noises were probably drowned out by the concert-loud music. But a fucking vintage Vespa? Attached like a barnacle on my rear-bumper? I started to laugh while confused the owner who had run over to inspect for damage.While no damage to my car, or his fucking vintage Vespa (although I suspect it may have bruised his ego!), I did offer to give him my business card just in case he wanted to make an issue of it. Thankfully he declined, I thought I’d leave him with a piece of unsolicited advice, for the future: park in the designated bike zones like everyone else (or get over the fear of looking like a fag and get a real bike!) Admittedly the last part I kept to myself.And so my emergence back into the real world started, literally, with a bang. I guess I never learnt the lesson last year when I bounced off the concrete speed barrier at 140Km’s per hour while pouring champagne for my passenger on our way back from a wedding and momentarily took my eyes from the road. Or that time that my younger brother and I decided to drive down to Cape Town and only packed one CD: ‘Pricilla, Queen of the Desert’. But that is another confession, for another time … 

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