Pull up to the bumper, baby...

I am now the proud owner (loser?) of a stolen car.

Hooray! At least now I don't have to sell the thing when I go to London*.

Of course, as long as I drive to the train station in the morning, I'm screwed. Could life get any more meaninglessly complex?? Or is this yet another kick in the complacency for someone who, admittedly, needs a cattleprod-esque jolt to his copious behind?

Until whenever

*WHICH, by the bloody by, SEEMS LIKE A BETTER IDEA ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

UPDATE
It's been found. Relatively intact. Certainly driveable. And only a suburb away.
What awesome luck, eh?