When I learned how to drive, cars were my life. A day without driving a car was a day wasted. My father, bless him, would often say to me ‘I think [insert name of family runabout] might be a bit low on fuel, would you mind filling it up?’ And I’d be out the door before the question mark had left his lips.
Within the minute I’d be driving, noting with a wry grin the three-quarters full tank and all would be well in my world. It really didn’t matter what it was – it could be a 2CV, his Fiat Cinquecento Sporting or the Series III Landie in which I passed my test and still lives in my shed to this day. All that mattered was that I was driving.
And I don’t suppose you’re finding any of that particularly surprising, given how I went on to earn my living. But here’s the thing: all my mates were at it too. They weren’t mates because we belonged to some car club, they were just mates – people who lived locally with whom you got on well – and yet almost all of us, the blokes at least, were obsessed with cars. The girls never were, which is probably as well because I was so easily impressed back then I was awed by one of them simply because she drank pints.
