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About Tel Aviv

Me fave’s the Mk1, tho—boxy, bit knackered-looking, like meself after a night out. Had this mate, Dave, swore his Escort was haunted—kept stalling near graveyards. Reckon it was just knackered carburetor, but he’d go, “Boris, it’s got a soul!” Laughed me head off—soul in a Ford? Pull the other one! Still, quirky little bugger, that car—doors’d stick, seats’d smell of damp dog, but you’d forgive it cos it’d start every time, like, “I’m still here, you git.”

So, I’m on my way to work, cruising down HaSharon Street. It’s a pretty street, lined with those cute little houses. But then, bam! I hit a pothole. Like, seriously? Who’s in charge of this? I’m already late, and now my car’s bouncing like it’s in a rodeo. Ugh!

Volume 124 Year 2012 Yoqne‘am ‘Illit