We have two cars. One is a minivan, standard issue for all suburban parents. Despite many efforts over the years, it has resisted all nicknames. We just call it “The Van.”
Our other car is an aging red Forester that we call “James.” The name harkens back to a time when the Captain was heavily into Thomas The Tank Engine. He named all vehicles after the train of their corresponding colour, so blue cars where Thomas or Gordon, and green cars were Percy. Ours was red, so it became James, and it stuck.
This morning I had a dentist appointment. I was taking the van so I’d have it later to do school pickup (I’m running a minor bus-delivery type service for kids in the neighbourhood, more on that some day, I’m sure). Gal Smiley wanted to wait in the driveway as I backed out so she could wave goodbye to me.
Me: Be careful where you stand. If I hit you with the van it would be the worst thing EVER.
Her: What if you hit me with James?
Seriously, sometimes I feel like I am raising three lawyers over here. Be exact with your language, or face cross examination!
Oh, James! Shiny and red and so very vain. I forgot that I knew that!
That’s so funny.
(sounds familiar)