It's all about jumpers

An icelandic singer stared at me from the cover of an album once. Her hands, clasped across her mouth as she peered out, maybe hiding secrets, maybe stifling a sneeze. Maybe she wasn't done chewing yet and was startled mid-mouthful. Either way, she had a jumper on that looked warm.

"There's more to life than this".

But what, I wonder. Leaning on the roof of the Manta, frameless windows leaving a narrow band of red censoring youthful hips as I glanced across the carpark at college, friends leaving for the buses. What else was there? In the Borders, it seemed like driving, fucking and sleeping was pretty much it. Oh, there was all the stuff around those activities - hours spent chatting up people, twirling pool cues in the bar, hours devoted to making the car stand out, polished and reflective, striking red paintwork broken up with distinctive asymmetrical black stripes.

"Some things hurt more, much more than cars and girls".

Seems like good advice. Since turning 14, both were pretty much all I'd think about for the next decade. Or two. Or let's not gloss over this, forever. I refer you to Björk's earlier statement.

Hindsight suggests that the aging Blaupunkt tape deck and General Motor's finest paper cone speakers neatly avoided both qualifications for High and Fidelity, yet the scattering of tapes that filled that car made it home and yet drove me crazy. The teutonic solution to tape storage, a Fischer C-box in the centre console, neatly held 6 C90s without their cases, little red dots telling me which space was occupied, which was vacant, but what seemed like exotic names on scattered mixes had to be kept for any mood. The glovebox had never seen gloves. The passenger footwells were like the chaotic iPod of the past; for shuffle, just keep your eyes on the road, reach into a doorbin and grab something.

"King of the Kerb"

And then wind the windows down, glance across at the plate glass of McKays clothes or the tinted panes of Enzo's chippy, and remind yourself that you're cool. One tanned arm lazily across the door; look ma, no hands!

"I know all this and more..."

As the summer fades, bare arms give way to jumpers. The same jumper as the girl on the CD cover, mohair, loose fur all over. The car looks like the cat's been sleeping in it, black velour velcro-stealing the stray fibres from the white wool. A new girl with dark eyes and dark thoughts, as we race down twisty roads, daring the viaduct to leap into our path.

"Mister, we just want your car"

And that, and acrylic afternoons, and Winter draws in.

Later, it's all fire and drink. Cars left behind in public, maybe shelter from the storms at best. All locked away in my head.

"We all get so complicated in our lives"

But the jumpers remain, stars and stripes. And maybe it's not the shirts and t-shirts, the jeans and jackets, that make me the shape I should be, but the fuzzy and bonfire smelling, the ragged and made by my mother, the baggy and warm. And maybe trying on the pinstripes and suits just isn't quite warm, the cars that belong in the executive carpark forgotten. Slightly disreputable, slightly fun, mostly happy.

"Pretending there's glamour in candelabra"

Even so. CD players. MP3s. Automatic gearboxes. You can time that moment when you bury your foot as the drum loop comes in, you can wait for the lights to change just as the dogs bark - the chances of being caught stealing slipped away with knowing what the consequences were. It's an act and the smile is a moment, not an attitude.

"We're gonna kill this pretty thing"

And no matter how bright the sunshine, no matter how loud the music, how good the car, how incredible the girl, it can't be the same. Because you will always know where you have been, and you always know where you are going.