Since the broken foot incident on Sunday, my daughter is now the prouder recipient of an electric scooter.
Yes, just like an old person, about to whizz down the street to get their packet of Monte Carlo’s, and place a bet on the Number Three at Randwick.
It has a backpack for incontinence items, or in her case, school books, which are both equal on her internal pleasure meter. But I told her, should she ever need incontinence items, then she has lots of space.
I wanted her to stick L plates on back. She refused but she did want to keep the orange flag. Dave said ‘no’ to that one. It seems noone’s getting what they want.
I thought she could get a tiny caravan (see above) and head off on a road trip for schoolies. She’s into the idea, or least to be able to have a nap cabin-style, at lunchtime.
Maybe she can stick a logo on the front, like this BMW, horse powered vehicle?
But there is nothing uncool about a scooter.
If it’s good enough for Prince, then it’s good enough for her.
So if you see a brunette in red lipstick, meticulously painted nails, and vintage shades on a red scooter, then chances are it’s Tansy, owning her turf.