When we set out to buy a new car, the agreement was pretty straightforward: I could choose any car I wanted (within budget), and Debbie would pick the colour. Fair enough.
Now, let me be clear—I don’t hate the colour she picked. But let’s just say if it were up to me, I’d have gone with something a bit more forgiving. You know… white or grey. Practical, low-maintenance, doesn’t show every smudge, scratch, or enthusiastic grandchild’s cleaning effort.
But nope. Sunstone Orange Mica it is.
To be fair, it does look great. Eye-catching, vibrant, unique. And according to two separate people in the car industry, also a colour that’s very prone to fading if not properly looked after. Their advice? Regular waxing to keep it looking showroom-fresh.
No worries. Since it’s “our” car, we split the duties: I handle the exterior, and Debbie takes care of the interior. Deal.
Now, waxing a car in Australia isn’t a task you just do. You’ve got to plan around the weather. Waxing a hot car in full sun? Nope. Doesn’t work. So you’re up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, before the sun really gets going. Except, of course, the weekend I’d planned for it turned out to be a rare rainy morning. Typical. I pushed it back a week, and when the stars finally aligned, I put in two and a half hours of hard graft. The result? The car looked better than when we drove it out of the dealership (on the outside, anyway).
Cue the next week. Windy. And in Western Australia, windy means dust and sand everywhere. I got home from work to a cheerful update: “The grandchildren washed the car!”
Oh no.
Internally, I cringed. Had they rinsed the car first? Or was the dust just scrubbed straight into the paintwork? I had visions of sponges being dropped on the driveway and then enthusiastically rubbed along the car’s panels by a very keen six-year-old. But hey, they’re the grandkids—they’re allowed to commit small acts of automotive violence.
Still, I was feeling slightly anxious. So I wandered inside to Wayne’s Bar for a well-earned cleansing ale. That’s when I saw it. The bucket. The bucket. The one I’d used to mix concrete for the bar footings a couple of weeks ago. It had been over 40 degrees that day, and I’d only given it the world’s fastest rinse. Sitting proudly inside this cement-dusted bucket? My car-washing sponge and chamois.
I nearly choked on my beer.
“Deb… what bucket did you use to wash the car?”
I shouldn’t have asked. According to her, nothing was wrong. And if something was wrong? Well, that was clearly my fault for tidying the garage. Apparently, she couldn’t find her bucket. (It was right by the door, by the way.)
So I gave up. I was fuming on the inside but knew I was wasting my breath. I haven’t even dared take a close look at the paintwork yet. I’m just… not ready.
Is it me? Did I overreact??