There’s a moment—right after I’ve signed the paperwork, shaken hands with a man called Gareth who smells faintly of dealership coffee, and slid into the cockpit of my brand new pride and joy—where I genuinely believe I’ve cracked life.
The cabin is immaculate. The plastics are unmolested. The carpets are virginal. The smell is so intoxicating it should be sold in 50ml bottles at Boots under the name Eau de Financial Ruin. And I, the proud owner, make solemn vows worthy of a medieval knight.
No tip runs. No children under five. No eating inside. No sex unless everyone is wearing full nuclear biological chemical protection. No smoking, vaping, or spontaneous human combustion.
I glide out of the dealership like a man transporting the Crown Jewels. I avoid potholes with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I give raised kerbs a 100 yard exclusion zone. I even promise—hand on heart—to wash the car every four weeks. I won’t, but I believe it at the time, and that’s what matters. And then… six months later.
I’m in the queue at the recycling centre with garden waste, cardboard, a rogue Christmas tree, and something that might once have been a cushion but now resembles a biohazard. My BMW X5—once a gleaming monument to German engineering—has become a mobile skip. The carpets look like they’ve been used to train police dogs. The exterior needs a wash just to remind me what colour it was when I bought it.
So why does this always happen? Why do I wander so far from my cherished principles? What psychological torpedo sinks my tenants of trash trivia?
The Academic Bit (Brace Yourself)
1. Hedonic Adaptation This is the fancy term for “the shine wears off.” Humans are wired to normalise pleasure. That new car high? It’s basically dopamine on a bungee cord. It shoots up, then snaps back to baseline. Before long, my X5 stops being a spaceship and becomes… a car. A car that can carry grass cuttings.
2. The Endowment Effect (But Only at First) I initially overvalue what I own. That’s why I treat the car like a newborn baby for the first few months. But once the novelty fades, the endowment effect quietly packs its bags and leaves. Suddenly, the boot becomes fair game for transporting a broken lawnmower and three bags of rubble.
3. The “Sunk Cost Fallacy” Meets “Life Is Too Short” I’ve paid a fortune for the thing, so I should protect it. But then real life intervenes. I need to get rid of garden waste. I need to transport something awkward. I need to ferry grandchildren. And I think: I can’t be arsed to hire a van. Boom. Principles torpedoed.
4. Identity Drift On day one, I’m “Ian, Owner of a Prestigious Vehicle.” By month six, I’m “Ian, Bloke Who Needs to Get This Crap to the Tip Before Sunday.” Identity is fluid. And my car becomes fluid with it.
5. The IKEA Effect (But in Reverse) We value things more when we’ve built them ourselves. I didn’t build the car. BMW did. So I don’t feel guilty when I treat it like a wheelie bin with leather seats.
I don’t fall from grace. I slide. Slowly. Incrementally. One lonely, half crushed Costa cup… one muddy boot… one “I’ll clean it next week” at a time.
And before I know it, my once pristine machine looks like it’s been used to transport livestock.
I start with rules, rituals, and reverence. I end with compost, chaos, and carpets that look like a crime scene. The psychology is simple: humans are inconsistent, novelty is temporary, and life always wins the battle against our best intentions.
Or, as Oscar Wilde allegedly said (he didn’t, but he should have):
“I can resist everything except the slow, inevitable decline of my own standards.”
© Ian Kirke 2026 and title photograph.
@ iankirke.bsky.social