WHAT KATY DID is the column from Mandurah Mail deputy editor Kate Hedley.
Kate divides her time between filing crime reports in Mandurah and sunning herself on George Clooney's yacht in Monte Carlo.
She will almost certainly never be Mother of the Year, but is in with a chance for the Miss Universe title once she decides which planet to represent.
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IT ASTOUNDS me that I have been to two car shows in the past fortnight and have yet to meet a husband with a Charger.
Especially shocking to me is the fact that, thanks to a few gale-force gusts of wind in Waroona on Sunday and a flimsy summer dress, I flashed half the town and still lucked out.
I’m not embarrassed to admit from the outset that everything I know about cars comes from Bruce Springsteen’s back catalogue.
But it was always going to take more than an encyclopaedic knowledge of Springsteen lyrics to win over these car fanatics.
Honestly, what hope did I have when one man I quizzed as to the extent of his love for his wheels told me he loved his GTS “more than anything in the world”?
“Do you have children? I asked him.
“Yep,” was his reply.
An awkward silence ensued until I beat a hasty retreat.
Also concerning was the habit classic car owners appear to have of referring to their vehicles as ‘she’.
“She purrs like a kitten.”
“She goes like the clappers.”
“She’s a beauty.”
You get the picture.
As much as I love a good car show, I can’t help but feel my presence would have been more appreciated if I had a bonnet and four wheels, if you know what I mean.
How is a girl supposed to compete with something which has had more work done on it than Cher?
Not even Joan Rivers has been lifted as many times as these machines in the quest for automotive perfection.
Among the shiny rims and the slick paint jobs on show I felt far from a perfect 10.
I wasn’t even in the ballpark of a big V6.
I was firing on no cylinders.
But I guess that’s what you get when you go to a car show on the hunt for someone with a sweet ride.
Honestly, if I knew a single thing about cars that didn’t involve a guitar, a bass line and a sweaty bandana worn by someone Born in the USA I may have been in with a chance.
There I was thinking I was Born To Run on Thunder Road.
But in the end these car shows left me feeling like a Wreck on the Highway.
Oh well.
There’s a big pumpkin festival in Dwellingup this weekend.
Maybe massive gourds are more my speed.
What do you think? Are the men in your life a little too distracted by their automotive persuasions? Post your comments below.
