You know how it is. You decide to do a few ‘little bits and pieces’ to your pride and joy. It should take just a quiet Saturday – maybe an evening or two after work. Next thing you know, weeks have gone past, the car is still on axle stands in the garage, the dirt is ingrained in your fingerprints so deep that no amount of Swarfega (other cleaning products are available, but none smell as chemically-yum) can disguise it, and your other half is reminding you just how predictable all of this was.
You might remember that I chose to buy one of these little Gallic buzz-boxes rather than a 205 Rallye or GTI, as I felt a bit guilty at using one of the latter through the salt and muck of the winter. Because 106s are still fairly plentiful, and have not reached the indisputable-classic status of 205s, I figured I would buy a semi-ropey example and just hoon around in all weathers without feeling bad about it.
I figured wrong. Even though mine was a solid-but-scruffy example, and I had paid less for it than a decent bicycle costs these days, I gradually started to feel sorry for it when I would head out on those days when you can actually see the white residue of salt-crust on the road. It never complained, but I started to believe that I could hear the ions swapping over as bits of Fe stamped in Sochaux 30 years ago made friends with oxygen atoms to produce reams of Fe2O3 somewhere in the little Pug’s nether regions.
