So that's how you know the little men from Mars or wherever have invaded, the car doesn't start. You might have saved yourself and your family from death by hiding in a Tube station as the majority of the world's population is wiped out, but you only know it is serious when you run up the escalator, passing many bodies, jump into your car, turn the ignition and nothing happens.
The black one comes flying across the field, the smaller one starts to run before he is bundled over and they both roll around, teeth gripped to each other's bandana. They playfully growl, separate and chase, one leading, then the other. Eventually two happy dogs come over to me, tails wagging and eyes expectant. Like children at play, these two are happy and content. And so am I.
'Yesterday we were in 81.6pc of the market, today we're in 100pc," this was the claim of Peugeot's marketing director, Colin Sheridan, last Monday as he announced that the French marque had officially become electrified with the launch of hybrid, plug-in hybrid and fully electric cars.
So picture this. It's wet and cold, bitterly so, and you have just walked your dogs for an hour across the fields of Phoenix Park. You arrive back at your car and discover that somewhere out there on your travels you have dropped your car key. You retrace some of your steps but the day is catching you up. You must return home, change and be ready for the first appointments of the day.
Poor Edna O'Brien - she always gets it rough. Her books were banned and, she claimed, burned. More than 50 years ago, Archbishop John Charles McQuaid called her "a renegade, and a dirty one". Even Fintan O'Toole, the lovies' lovey and doyen of The Irish Times, is claimed by O'Brien, who does love drama, to have once called her "morally criminal". Actually, he said the "breathless prose" of In The Forest was "an aesthetic as well as a moral mistake".
I spent much of Budget Day afternoon, either at the doctor or waiting at the driving licence centre. Neither was needed but I had been wrongly advised the day before, when presenting my application, that I needed a medical report as the licence would go into a period when a "big roundy birthday" (as Ronan Collins might say) would occur.
It is always fraught recommending cars to family, friends and colleagues. It is even more so when one of the latter's brilliance and exacting standards are only matched by what can be described politely as challenging moodiness. That he was a great friend and sat next to me complicated the process.
This week a mere handful of us will gather in a room of the old Sir Patrick Dun's Hospital on Dublin's Lower Grand Canal Street. Somebody will press 'Play' and after Sinead O'Connor sings the uplifting and totally appropriate 4th and Vine, we'll sit down and the registrar will start the marriage to my partner of more than 17 years.
In my teens, I remember a lot of men with the title Major, Commander, or Wing Co calling to our hotel to see my father. Often they would be driving Rovers or Jaguars and in addition to their sheepskin car coats they'd have leather driving gloves - often with a crocheted string-back.
Many might like to conjecture that the Ford Mondeo, similar to so many big saloons, could be headed for the knacker's yard within the next three years or so. In some ways that would be a pity, as on its day it was one of the best cars to drive with almost faultless dynamics.
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