Holy Rustbucket . . .

We're bouncing sedately down the road in the Rustbucket, when Jools suddenly squeals. Shit, I think, the wheels have finally fallen off. But no, we've just been overtaken by a huge, black and gleaming Batmobile in pursuit of some Joker or other . . .

"Perhaps you'd like one of those," I queried.

"Nope. I just love this old Rustbucket; it's like you, knackered, worn out, but full of fond, if rapidly fading, memories of good times past," she responded. Then, after a brief pause, "On second thoughts, perhaps I need something with more performance, more reliable, and bits that aren't constantly falling off."

Not sure whether she was referring to me or the Rustbucket. Both of us, perhaps . . .