Omnis vendentur, sed nihil interit

Someone who isn’t me seems to want Constance the moped. That’s good. Much as I’d like to keep her as a frippery—who doesn’t want a lady on the side, especially one that goes, if not like a train, then over 40mph downhill?—the end of the year is looming: MOT, tax and the Suzuki warranty’s regulation service are all on the horizon. Getting Constance out of the garage and in use—even if it isn’t by me personally—feels like a preparation, a clearing-out of the underbrush.

So I accepted a lower price for a quick sale. So I’m trying not to take Constance out for one last sentimental journey. So I’m not thinking about the beauty of the buzz out to Wheatley yesterday to meet Daniel from Ealing and show him the moped; or about how when you get beyond High Cogges the landscape turns as flat as the marshes round Glastonbury, with raised roads bordered by tufts of grass, golden in the setting sun; or about Cumnor Hill ahead of me, all proud and settled and green. I’m not really a motorcyclist; but it wouldn’t take much effort, I’m sure.

From the sudden successes of the advert, I can recommend Auto Trader, but even that site is crippled by scam artists (to a lesser extent than the damage done to Daily Information’s “anti-spam” email-hiding facility). It’s just not worth leaving an email address on either.

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