It is no more. It is deceased, deader than a Norwegian blue parrot. It has ceased to exist, it has gorn to join the choir invisibule, it has shuffled off the mortal coil, although I cannot swear that the coil was the source of the problem. Any road up, it is now an ex-Land Rover, mute, inert. I preferred it of course when it was noisy and ert, but I have to resign myself now to life without Disco.
She - no slur on the fair sex intended - chose her moment to breathe her last. I had loaded her to the gunwales with household and garden rubbish, all ready to take my leavings to the Landfill Site, as rubbish tips are now called. And she wouldn't go. A few sulky turns of the engine and then nothing. In the midst of life we are in death. She could have chosen a better moment, though.