It was one of those stereotypical nights that would feel right at home in a Hollywood movie – the sky was black, the wind howled menacingly, the icy rain hurled itself at the ground, and small furry creatures everywhere ran and hid.  And I sat at home reading Samuel a bedtime story.  It was only when my mobile rang on page 2 that it became apparent that the weather was indeed a bad omen.

In all fairness, Ellie has only been driving on her own for a month.  And it’s not exactly a small car.  And the conditions were awful, as I’ve described above.  And it was a very narrow road.  Squeezing down a poorly lit residential street she slightly misjudged her position on the road, and clipped the back of a parked car as she passed.  She was only in second gear apparently, and it took her completely by surprise.  She was surprisingly calm on the phone though, which in turn helped me to be surprisingly calm too, as I skipped to the end of the book (andtheyalllivedhappilyeveraftertheend) and hastily put Samuel to bed without brushing his teeth.  To be honest I was more relieved than anything else – given the sort of accidents new drivers usually have, this was nothing.

Thankfully the owner of the other car was very understanding.  In fact, apparently it was the third time this had happened to her.  Which tends to suggest it’s not entirely Ellie’s fault after all… but I doubt the insurance company will see it that way.

Ellie wasn’t hurt at all, incidentally, as she wasn’t going particularly fast at the time.  In fact, on inspection in the light of the following day the damage didn’t seem too bad.  But because Ellie had mentioned about the steering not feeling quite right we decided to play it safe and leave the car where it was until it could be looked at by a garage.  So we arranged for the car to be collected, and today I heard back from them with their assessment of the damage.  There was some cosmetic work that would need doing, such as replacing a few body panels (front bumper, bonnet, front wing), repainting (the aforementioned new panels, plus some deep scratches on the doors), and a new headlight unit.  But the thing that really swung the issue was a bent and snapped steering rack.  Ouch.  Presumably when the two cars collided they bumped wheels, and even at that slow speed it was enough to cause significant damage.  The cost of repair was quoted at more than I paid for the car in the first place, so understandably it has been deemed a complete loss.

It makes me wonder though how cars last so long when they’re banger racing.  If a gentle knock can sheer a steering rack, how can scrap cars survive being repeatedly rammed and still pull themselves along??  I also wonder what banger racing will be like in 20 years time when all the ‘old’ cars are made of plastic.

So on Friday, straight after a work end-of-year conference in Yeovil, I went and picked up a hire car that we’d booked for the weekend, and spent most of Saturday looking at cars.  I had already looked at the AutoTrader website, and had decided that a Ford Focus was what we needed.  Significantly smaller and cheaper than the Zafira, but still with just about enough space inside for us to get by on a day-to-day basis.  A long term goal at the back of my mind is that now that Ellie and I both drive it might be more sensible for us to have two smaller cars rather than one big one.  So I picked out the best options, we piled into the tiny Corsa we’d hired, and set off.

The first car was in Frome, and was being sold privately rather than by a garage.  I thought it looked good from the website, so I was feeling positive.  However, the man selling the car didn’t do himself any favours at all.  He knew practically nothing about the car, because he hadn’t had it long and hadn’t bought it for himself, and had allowed the MOT to run out.  That meant that we couldn’t legally take it for a test drive, despite his offers.  It also had dubious interior additions (who uses CB radios these days???), two balding tyres (both on the same side of the car, so all four would need replacing), the engine sounded rough (even for a diesel), and it just didn’t feel right.  So we left without even moving it off the drive.

The next one on my list was back in Shepton.  It looked miles better, despite a little rust on the rear subframe, so we took it for a spin.  It was okay, but not great.  The brake discs felt warped, and juddered a lot when braking, which made the whole braking experience very unnerving.  It was also didn’t like going into third gear.  It was a nice enough car, it just didn’t feel like ours.  So we said no and went home to grab some lunch.

Armed with a broader range of options, having succumbed to the idea that I might be wrong in declaring that we needed a Focus, we set off in the afternoon to see three more cars: a Zafira and a Focus Estate in Frome, and an Astra in Trowbridge.  We went to Frome first on the basis that they were closing earlier.  The Zafira was like ours, only a slightly higher spec model, so we took that as read and had a look at the Focus Estate, just to see what the difference was.  It looked lovely, a wonderful big boot, great condition, and none of the rust issues that the other Focus had had.  Taking it for a spin we both very soon agreed that it felt like our car.

So we bought a Focus after all, albeit a bigger one than I’d expected.  God led us in exactly the right direction, once I let him, and it’s being delivered on Sunday afternoon.  Yay!  I’ll put photos up in due course, for those of you for whom a blog post of this length is just too much effort.

In my case, I spent Saturday afternoon washing the car.  I’m ashamed to say that’s the first wash the car has had since I bought it about a year ago.  But don’t tell my grandparents, they still think I take good care of my cars.  As you might guess, there was a considerable build-up of dirt, especially on the boot and the bottoms of the doors.  And a Vauxhall Zafira is considerably bigger than a classic Mini.  Which is why I’d had to psych myself up for the ordeal.

I started by setting up the garden hose (which Samuel found fascinating) and dousing the car in water, just to try and loosen some of the dirt a bit.  Then out came the bucket and sponge.  This is where I came across my first problem – I’m not actually tall enough to do the whole of the roof.  I did the best I could, but there is actually still a strip along the middle of the roof where I couldn’t reach.  I didn’t take that into account when I bought the car.

The back of the car was a bit of a challenge, just because of the amount of dirt that was there.  I would wipe across with my sponge, and even with one stroke I’d be wiping with dirty water.  It took several attempts to get it all off, and even then it was still streaky with slightly grubby watermarks.  Nor could I get all the grime off around the rear wheel arches or the front bumper.  It’s a lot better than it was, that’s for sure, but it wouldn’t compare to the perfect shine I always strived for with Neddy.  Still, one consolation with it being a newer car is that if the body panels aren’t made of metal they can’t rust.

So now we have a nice shiny clean car.  Not quite as-new, but close enough for now.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like the idea of Ellie driving – I’m sure she’ll be a fantastic driver, and I have no concerns about that whatsoever.  I’ve already taken her out a few times to try to teach her the basics, and she picked it up fairly quickly.  In the space of three lessons I had got Ellie to get the car moving, change gear (up to third at one point), stop without stalling, steer around parked cars, negotiate junctions, even do a few hill starts.  That, though, was a couple of years ago, and a lot has happened since then to get in the way of her doing any more driving.  Now it’s become more important, so we’ve got her some proper driving lessons with a proper instructor in a proper learner’s car.  And to be perfectly honest, I’m terrified.

I completely understand why Ellie wants to drive, and I don’t blame her for it at all.  It’s going to be incredibly useful for all of us if she can drive.  She can drive me to work and have the car during the day to go into town, do the shopping, take Samuel to various places, and pick me up in the evening.  We can share the driving on long journeys.  She can go out for a jaunt if she’s in the mood for it, without needing me to come too.  She’ll have the freedom to go where she wants, when she wants, without inconveniencing me or anyone else.  It’ll save us money on bus fares.  Ellie will be able to ferry me around if I break my leg or something.  Eventually we could even get a second car and we could both drive around at the same time.  It’ll be fantastic.

But, all that said, I’m still somewhat nervous about the whole thing.  Driving has always been something that has defined me.  When I was a kid I dreamt of being able to drive.  If I played a computer game, it was invariably a car racing game of some sort.  I loved playing with toy cars.  I was fanatical about classic Minis, and bought various Mini-related magazines.  I still have a large collection of model Minis in our display cabinet.  I got my provisional license as soon as I was eligible, and started having lessons right away.  My Dad taught me to begin with, and then once I’d got the basics I had some paid-for lessons too.  I was proud of how few lessons I actually needed, of how naturally it all came to me, and equally proud of passing my test first time round with only two minors (both of which I dispute, incidentally).  Now I’m the man of the house, the head of my little family, and I take great joy in being able to ferry everyone around.  It’s something I’m good at, something I’m needed for.  And now Ellie is muscling in on my territory, forcing me out of my place of comfort as the sole driver in the family, challenging my dominance and making me share what has so far been my own position of responsibility.

Actually, when I put it like that, it does sound like I’m a little child again, not wanting to share my favourite toy.  But I suppose that’s what it’s like, really, I’m just a bit older.  ’Driving’ is my toy.  It belongs to me.  It’s mine.  And now I’m having to share.  And I don’t think I like it.

Yes, I know I’ll have to get used to the idea, and yes I’m sure in time I’ll really appreciate the benefit of having someone else able to drive, and yes I know I’m being silly about the whole thing, and yes I ought to be more supportive of my wife, and yes I definitely will be incredibly proud of her when she passes her test.  But for now, it’s still a lot to come to terms with.  Deep down, part of me will still mourn the loss of my status as ‘the one who drives’.

My car has been making an odd noise for the last couple of weeks.  We first noticed it on the way back from my cousin’s wedding (congratulations Mel and Lal!), when we stopped at some traffic lights in Castle Cary and heard a faint ticking noise coming from the engine.  My wife described it as being like a leaf caught in a bicycle wheel.  My keenly trained ears quickly assessed it to be in sync with the rotational speed of the engine, and experience told me it was probably something running dry.  Obviously the engine could do with a top up of oil, and I mentally scolded myself for not checking the level before we left.

And then, well, things got in the way.  It was raining.  We were ill.  I was busy.  There just wasn’t an ideal time to pop out and top up the oil, so I just carried on driving to work and back with that ticking noise in the background, a constant reminder that actually the engine wasn’t all that happy, and that I really should do something about it.  Finally, this morning, just as we were about to head off to Tesco for the weekly shop, I remembered and checked the oil level.  It was indeed low.  It wasn’t even registering on the dipstick.  My bad.  So I hunted around in the garage and found the oil, but realised too late that it wasn’t nearly enough.  So I put what we had into the car and drove to Tesco, where I parked up and walked round the corner to the garage to buy some more.

When I got back I opened the bonnet, removed the oil filler cap, removed the oil bottle top, and prepared to fill her up.  And that’s where it all went wrong.  The angle wasn’t right, the bottle was too full, the bottle opening was far too far away from the engine, I was either too cautious or too enthusiastic, and the first couple of glugs of oil came spilling out into the engine bay, with hardly a drop actually going where it was supposed to.  Oops.  The engine was still hot from having just been driven, and the oil on the engine block quickly started to steam and smoke off.  In the Tesco car park.  With people passing by.  Yes, I was embarrassed.

Thankfully it looked worse than it actually was.  It wasn’t a huge quantity of oil, and it wasn’t actually doing any damage, despite the clouds of white smoke billowing from the engine bay.  It hadn’t got on the electrics, it wasn’t going to short anything, it wasn’t going to catch fire.  So I put it all away again and popped into Tesco to buy some cheap implement for achieving a more satisfactory delivery of oil to the engine.  A 35p plastic jug presented itself, and armed with that I headed back to the car.  From then on it was easy, just the way it should have been from the start.  I filled the engine with oil, checking the dipstick as I went, until I’d got a suitable level in there.  The engine block was cooler now, so it wasn’t smoking, but there was a small pool of oil on the floor below the car, and I knew it was going to heat up once we started to drive, so I just had to convince my wife that it would all be okay.

Sure enough, before we’d been on the road more than a few minutes we began to smell the hot oil burning itself off the engine block.  Not entirely pleasant, if you’re not into cars, and when we got home and parked the engine was still smoking quite a bit.  But, once again, I reassured my wife that it was all fine, nothing to worry about.  When she was inside I took a quick peek under the bonnet though, just to make sure.

We went out in the afternoon too, as it happens.  The engine now sounds and feels much smoother and happier, and there’s no more white smoke or oily smell, so all’s good.  But that’s another lesson learnt.  Never try to fill up with oil without a reliable pouring device.  If you do, it’ll all end in tears.  Or at the very least, smoke.

Oh, and a final aside to Sarah: you have permission to ridicule me for my momentary automotive ineptness.

This isn't actually the car in question, but it's almost identical.

Astute readers will recall that on Saturday I went to see a Zafira, which I had decided was the next type of car we needed.  It’s a logical progression really.  The first car I owned was a Ford Fiesta.  I wanted a Mini, but I was fresh out of uni and couldn’t afford one, so I settled for a Fiesta instead.  Then, when business had picked up, I bought a Mini, and thoroughly enjoyed my little pocket rocket.  Then I got married, and was suddenly doing a lot of miles, and the Mini started seeming smaller and smaller the more we packed into the boot.  And then we decided to have a baby, and a Mini just wasn’t practical any more, so we moved into small family saloon territory with a conservative Ford Escort.  Now, as an established family and all the baggage that brings with it, we are in need of a ‘proper’ family car, a seven-seater.  Hence the Zafira.

After Saturday’s disappointment, we were keen to get out there and see something else.  If nothing else, it would be good to be able to make a direct comparison.  And hope that the car we had dismissed at the weekend didn’t turn out to be a bargain.  So this afternoon I skipped work and we all drove out to Westbury to see another Zafira.  Same listed price as the other one, same 1.6 engine, roughly the same spec, also from a dealership rather than private, but slightly lower mileage.  And, as it happens, we rather liked what we saw.

Structurally, this example was much better than the previous one we had seen, with good solid underpinnings and a healthy engine.  In fact, it was generally in much better condition all round, inside and out.  Of course it wasn’t perfect, it would have been more expensive if it had been, but the sort of things that were wrong with it somehow felt like the ‘right’ things to be wrong with it.  In that sense, it almost felt like being back in the Mini.  Familiar.  Homely.  It had been well used, but not abused or misused.

Outside, the bodywork was in fantastic condition, with no visible dings, dents or serious scratches.  There were no cracks in the windscreen, unlike the other one we’d seen, and the boot scratchplate wasn’t too scratched either.  Inside the condition of the fabric was good; worn, but in places you’d expect and to an acceptable degree.  None of the trim was falling off, and although the ratchet mechanism on the middle row of seats was a little worn in some positions it was safe and secure enough not to be a problem.

There were however a few concerns in the boot area.  The metalwork on the back of the rear seats was horribly rusted, and rust marks were visible on the fabric it had been rubbing against.  That was a bit of a surprise, and wasn’t evidenced anywhere else in the car, and would have developed over a long time rather than a one-off event, so we guess it must have been a dog – get a wet dog in there on a regular basis, with claws scratching the paintwork, and I guess that’s what you end up with.  Still, it all appears to be surface rust, so I should be able to sand that down and repaint it, and wash out the stains on the fabric, so that wasn’t a deal breaker.

The boot was also missing its carpet, which sits on top of the back seats when they’re folded down.  Also absent was the boot cover, which is like a window blind mounted the wrong way, and which hides whatever you have lurking in the boot, whether that be musical instruments, an umbrella, Italian gold bars, a small child, a childish adult, or whatever.

Out on the road, the Zafira felt good.  The engine pulled well and was nice and quiet too, showing that it hadn’t been submitted to regular thrashing, despite it only having a little 1.6 litre engine.  The gears felt nice and smooth (and not at all sticky like the previous one, which the dealer had assured us was normal for Vauxhalls – apparently he was mistaken).  The car drove in a steady straight line, and kept its composure under braking and accelerating too.  And I love the handling.  So much better than the Escort.  It’s slightly firmer, while at the same time being more comfortable, and has the sort of stability that makes it feel like a much lighter car.

The passenger side wing mirror gave me some trouble though.  I couldn’t get it to reposition properly while we were out driving.  When we got back it turned out the mechanism inside was loose and broken, so that would need replacing.

There was one thing that had me concerned though, and that was the brakes.  I tried them hard a couple of times, and had great difficulty bringing the car to a halt.  Even with all my might pushing on the brake pedal, it didn’t feel as brutal as it should have done and didn’t even get close to locking up a wheel.  I reckon there’s something wrong with the servo.  The brakes themselves feel fine, and it brakes evenly across all four wheels and stays in a straight line, so it’s not something to do with the brake discs themselves.  It feels almost like driving a Mini, if I’m honest.  Nowhere near as crisp as the previous Zafira I had driven, and I’m not sure I would feel safe with brakes like that, let alone be happy for my wife to drive it.

So, when we were back at the dealership, we started the deal-making process.  Now, I’ll admit to not being the most experienced negotiator, and undoubtedly not the most forceful person in this situation either.  I’m the sort of person who gives in too soon, having seen the situation from the other person’s perspective far too easily, and not confident enough in my own decisions to be able to stand firm.  Nonetheless, I went in with a pitch I knew was too low and gauged the reaction.  Clearly I had a fight on my hands, and this guy wasn’t going to let us get away with very much at all.  He had his selling price, and wanted every penny of that, which I guess is understandable.  But I pushed some more, and some more, and eventually he took us up to his office so that he could crunch some numbers.  That, I thought, was a good sign.

Unfortunately, all he could offer us was £45 off the listed price, which I thought was a bit pants.  However, he was able to throw in various things that we would otherwise have had to deal with ourselves; he would buy us a boot carpet and a boot cover, he would fix the wing mirror, he would have the car fully MOTed, and he would have his mechanic look at the brakes too.  Given that a new brake servo could potentially be at least a couple of hundred pounds if we’d had it done elsewhere, that was quite an incentive.  And we’d get the usual three month warranty.

I sat there running it through my mind for quite a while, doing some sums (which hurt my brain), and after a big thumbs-up from God (who in all honesty I think may have been a little frustrated at not being given a look in earlier – my bad), we shook hands on a deal.  Yay!  We’ll take delivery of our Zafira in a few days, once all the work has been done and the extra parts sourced (from eBay, most likely, but that’s no biggie).

So, we are now the proud and slightly giddy owners of a people carrier.  This marks a pretty substantial landmark in our family history.  It’s all… like… sensible, and mature, and stuff.

Oh, and I now have a Ford Escort for sale for £850, if anyone’s interested.

A Citroen 2CV. Another example of a car I didn't buy today.

As many of you will probably know, I’m a bit of a Mini fanatic.  My darling Lulu, the little red Mini City I learnt to drive in, was an inspiration.  Neddy, the little blue Mini Sidewalk, was a joy.  Sad was the day when I said good bye to the days of carefree invigorating driving and welcomed in a life of staid normality in the form of a Ford Escort.  Yes, it was more practical, but it lacked all the ‘fun’ qualities I had grown used to.  Now, only a year or two later, the time has come for the next step in the process – I’m buying a people carrier.

Before I cower behind my desk chair against the onslaught of abuse, allow me to explain the logic behind this overly ‘grown-up’ proposition.  We have a baby.  I have lots of instruments.  We go places with both.  Our trusty Ford Escort, which has a truly monumental boot capacity compared to the Mini, is now on the verge of being too small to cope with our many belongings.  It’s also beginning to show its age, with rusty patches on some of the exterior panels.  The logic says that if we buy a slightly more expensive car (though still second hand) it should last us slightly longer, and buying a 7-seater will give us more space to carry people and stuff around.

Our vehicle of choice?  The most popular small 7-seater around.  The MPV that launched touting the most revolutionary seating system the world had ever seen.  The people carrier that has become ubiquitous for small families.  The Vauxhall Zafira.

Today we went to see one.  Priced at just under £3K, on a 51 plate, 88K miles, 1.6l engine.  I had a fair idea of what I was expecting, and I had done enough research to know the statistics and reviews, but having never actually been inside a Zafira I was still intrigued to see what it was actually like.  Unfortunately, this particular example didn’t impress.

The driver’s side wing mirror was corroded.  The engine was leaking oil.  The engine was leaking water.  The gearbox was very sticky and the gear linkage wasn’t quite lined up properly.  There was broken trim on the passenger seat.  The handbrake needed tightening.  The car pulled to the left slightly.  The handle on one of the back seats was split.  The boot lining was stained.  The first aid box was missing.  The red warning triangle was missing.  The spare wheel holder was rusted.  The exhaust was rusting.  The rear subframe was beginning to rust.  The front subframe was beginning to rust.  The windscreen had 5 large chips in it.  Not quite what I had been expecting from three grand’s worth of car.

It wasn’t all bad though, there were lots of things I liked about the Zafira in general, if not this particular one.  The large windows give great visibility, and the high driving position felt comfortable – not sporty, by any means, but not quite as bad a driving a van.  The engine pulled well, despite being the 1.6 litre version that everyone says isn’t powerful enough (I reckon it would actually be fine, with my driving style; remember that I’m used to driving a Mini and changing down a gear or two at the slightest sign of a hill).  Because the Zafira is based on the Astra, it’s actually not excessively wide, and when inside it doesn’t actually feel like a big car; it doesn’t echo or rattle around like a big car.  The steering is very responsive, and the handling generally is superb, with hardly any body roll at all, despite its tall profile.  The seats are quite flexible in terms of their potential positions, which is useful, and even with all seven seats up the remaining boot is large enough for a small shopping trip or a small pushchair.  Generally speaking, I was very impressed by the Zafira, and encouraged that my research had been worthwhile.  It’s a superb car.  It’s a car I can see myself driving.  Just not that one.

What really surprised me though was the dealer.  I’ve never actually been to a car dealership before, so again I had read up about what sort of things to look out for.  As it turns out, this guy was a rank amateur.  He was a youngish chap, but he came across somewhat unprofessional.  The car had no petrol in it for a start, which was a bit embarrassing because he had to send his friend to buy some before he could move the car off the forecourt.  Then, when we had come back from our test drive and we told him it wasn’t for us, he seemed to take offence.  He appeared genuinely indignant when I told him what was wrong with the car, as if it was him personally I was insulting.  He made out that we were fools to expect better quality from that price car, without actually inquiring as to our budget, and didn’t even attempt to start a deal.  He wanted us to pay the asking price, and was shocked and appalled that we turned it down.  He didn’t seem at all interested in showing us any other cars, made no suggestion of being able to put right those little niggles for us, didn’t sound hopeful of getting anything else in that would suit us, and generally gave the impression that he suddenly didn’t like us and didn’t want our custom.  So we left.

We didn’t buy a car today.  It just didn’t feel right.  It didn’t feel like ‘our’ car.  If nothing else, it wasn’t anywhere near as good quality as our Escort, which hardly makes it a credible upgrade!  However, we were both very much impressed by the Zafira in principle, so we’ll be looking for one elsewhere.  The 1.8 petrol engine would be nice (most people swear by it), but from today’s outing I don’t think the 1.6 would be unusable. If anyone happens to have a Zafira knocking around that they’re trying to sell, do let me know…

In many car racing computer games your entitlement to drive particular classes of car has to be earned through proving your driving skill, rather than just the accumulation of money.  It strikes me that actually this is a fair and sensible approach, and one that highlights just how inadequate and antiquated our current system is.  At the moment we only have one driving test, which is a simple yes/no answer to the question “did this person meet the minimum requirements on the day of the test”.  The same driving test entitles someone to drive a rusty old Vauxhall Corsa, or a Bugatti Veyron.  There’s something wrong there, methinks.

And so, as I drove along in my Ford Escort, I worked out the finer details of my idea to revolutionise driving tests, licences and car manufacture.  To my surprise and delight, it looks like it might actually be a good idea!

The aim of this system is to ensure that people do not end up driving cars that they are not capable of controlling safely.  Take, for instance, a 17 year old driving a Focus RS.  Or an elderly man erratically towing a caravan and taking up all three lanes of the motorway in the process.  Somehow our society believes that it is our human right to be allowed to drive whatever car we like, which I’m not sure I agree with.  It certainly doesn’t tally with other areas of life; a GCSE grade E does not entitle you to the same standard of job as a First level degree.

This is not intended to be a practical limitation to people, nor a discrimination on those with expensive taste; all types of car should be available to all people (within reason), and people with deep pockets should still be able to drive in a luxurious mobile hotel if that’s what they want.  My point is that money alone shouldn’t buy performance.  A wealthy businessman can buy a Mercedes if he wants, but it’s conceivable that he might not be a great driver, so shouldn’t be let loose with millions of horsepowers.

My idea would be to split cars into four categories, or levels, each one accessible only by passing a further driving test to prove your driving ability.  Before I go into the details of how to achieve all this, here is a breakdown of each level.

Level 1

This is where every new driver would start off, and is where they would stay if they were over-cautious, nervous, or unskilled.  Think of it as a ‘beginners’ class, for people to whom driving does not come naturally.  Or for people who just can’t be bothered to upgrade because the higher levels hold no attraction for them.  The driving test would be pretty basic, just making sure drivers were safely able to control the car, so not too dissimilar from the current test.

At this level you would be entitled to drive cars with a low power to weight ratio, like a 1.2L Fiesta or a 1.6L Focus.  Pretty much all type of car would be found here, including superminis, hatchbacks, saloons, estates, people carriers, small pickups, small 4x4s and small vans.  The low power to weight ratio ensures that the car is safe and easy to control at all times.  Further limits would include no towing of trailers or caravans, and no rear wheel drive.

Level 2

This level describes an ‘average’ driver, and is where most drivers would probably sit.  It could also be described as an intermediate qualification, for people who are fairly confident in their driving ability and able to demonstrate some maturity too.  The driving test would be a little more advanced, a bit like the existing Pass Plus test, making sure that drivers not only met the minimum requirements but were also reliable and effective in their driving, showing themselves to be able to control the car in all weathers and have some basic car maintenance knowledge.

All previous car types would be available, plus large pickups, large 4x4s, large vans and minibuses.  Cars with a better power to weight ratio would be allowed, like a 1.6L Mini or a 2.0L Mondeo.  Towing and rear wheel drive would be allowed, as well as the option of a turbodiesel engine.

Level 3

This level is for the more advanced driver, the driving enthusiast.  The driving test would show the driver to be more skilled than average in their car control, and might include a outing to a skid pan, a demonstration of cornering ability, clean and efficient gear changes, and a good general knowledge of basic engine functionality.  Very few people would need this level, so its only purpose really is for enthusiasts, those who want to use the achievement as a status symbol, and people who relish the thrill of driving a sports car.  Because experience also comes into play at this point, we might introduce a further limit whereby you must have at least 5 years driving experience to even take the test.

Cars at this level would have a higher power to weight ratio and would introduce sports models like a 2.5L Focus RS or a 4.0L V8 BMW M3.  These are cars that in the wrong hands could be difficult to handle and potentially dangerous, hence the need to prove yourself capable.  Petrol engines would also have the option of being turbocharged, even supercharged, and you’d be able to vary the level of traction control (i.e. turn it off for track days).

Level 4

This is where the serious drivers live, with skill levels almost at semi-professional.  These are expert drivers, with a true passion for motorsport and a natural aptitude for precision driving.  The test would therefore include advanced driving techniques such as controlling powerslides (drifting), choosing the best racing line, heel-and-toe and double-clutching, left foot braking, and some experience both on a racing track and offroad.

The cars you’d expect to find at this level are the best of the best.  The supercars.  Vehicles with a very high power to weight ratio, like a 3.8L Porsche 911 Carrera S or a 4.5L Ferrari 458 Italia.

Now for some further details and caveats.

Obviously there are some people who are not going to like this idea.  For that reason, I’m happy for the government to steal my idea; I don’t mind not getting official credit for the idea, because it means I won’t get the hate mail as well.  I’m fully aware that there are car enthusiasts out there who love cars, especially the powerful ones, but are not competent drivers, who will feel that they are being unfairly discriminated against.  They will no doubt argue that although the car has a big engine they don’t ever use all that power so it’s no more dangerous than a Prius.  My argument, however, means that it is not illegal to own sports cars without a suitable licence, just to drive them on public roads.  If you want to own a sports car and drive it on a track or private land, you go right ahead.

Then there is the modifiers community, who love to take ordinary cars and pimp them up with bodykits and massive engines.  Well, I have nothing against you modifying your cars, in all honesty I’d do the same if I had the time and money.  But the classification of your car may have to change as a result of the modifications you make.  With this in mind, we would have to introduce further tests as part of the yearly MOT to make sure the power to weight ratio hasn’t been changed too far for it to need reclassifying.

I’d also like to clarify why I keep going on about power to weigh ratios instead of horsepowers.  Remember that the amount of power an engine develops only makes a car powerful in comparison to its weight.  A 100hp engine in a tiddly little Saxo will be pretty racy, while the same 100hp in a hefty 7-seater people carrier might not really be enough.  So classifying cars on their power to weight ratio ensures that we are dealing in the effective power rather than the crankshaft power, which makes it more relevant.  In the MOT, cars would have to be put on a rolling road to test their power and then weighed to get the necessary statistic.

This also has implications for insurance companies.  Drivers with a high level licence who choose to drive a lower level car could be given discounts, having shown themselves to be safer behind the wheel; I’d see that as a much more reliable judge than a person’s no-claims bonus.  In the event of an accident, if the driver was found to be driving a car in a higher class than their licence permitted, their insurance would be void and null; police could also impose fines if they found people driving cars they weren’t authorised to drive, maybe even taking them down a level.

When it comes to those additional tests, this ties in with something I’ve thought for many years – I think compulsory retests are a good idea.  They could be introduced gradually, but it would be great if we could make sure that everyone was retested at least once every 10 years.  A lot can happen in 10 years, after all.  Further tests would all be optional, of course.  People who drive for business may be required to have at least Level 2, but that shouldn’t be difficult to achieve for most people so that’s not going to be a problem.

A quick word about turbos.  My dear friend Phill commented on a previous rant of mine saying how he has justified choosing a car with a turbo fitted.  This is not a direct get-back at him, I must stress.  And it must be understood what the difference is between a turbo on a petrol engine and a turbo on a diesel engine.  These days, turbodiesels are commonplace and do not represent a sporty or excessively powerful engine.  A normally-aspirated diesel engine (i.e. one without a turbocharger) has a narrow power band, poor efficiency, lumpy power transmission, excessive CO2 emission and is pretty noisy.  Adding a modern turbocharger transforms the engine into an efficient purr, and has made it very popular in many saloons and even some sports cars.  I therefore see no reason not to allow a Level 2 driver to have a turbodiesel vehicle, because it doesn’t present a particularly high risk or require additional skill to control.  A turbocharger on a petrol engine, however, is an entirely different monster.  A normally-aspirated petrol engine typically has a wider power band, revs happily and develops a good amount of power, and still manages to be relatively efficient.  Adding a turbo massively increases power output, often makes it quite wild and harder to control, and usually negatively impacts fuel efficiency too.  Giving an everyday driver access to these sorts of turbos is not a good idea, hence why Level 2 allows turbodiesel but not petrol turbo.  There is method to the madness.

So what happens if you take a routine retest and get downgraded to a lower class?  Naturally, you wouldn’t be expected to walk home, so I imagine there would have to be a suitable amount of time between your reclassing to allow to you sell your car, or take another retest.

There are also implications for the car manufacturers, who would be encouraged to make sure they have models in each category.  This means making a luxurious Mercedes Benz that can be graded in Level 1, so that Mr Director can turn up to his business meetings looking the bee’s knees despite his inability to qualify for a Level 2 licence.  Obviously, there are limits to this; no purist will be happy to see an Aston Martin fitted with a teensy weensy 1.6L engine.  Also, it’s clear that it would be unfair to apply these classifications to cars already on the market, so it would have to be something introduced to new cars.

Finally, I want to make it clear that I’m not out to make life more difficult for everyone.  I just want to make the roads safer, by ensuring that those people driving sports cars are actually capable of controlling them.  This new system doesn’t cater for farm or heavy machinery, heavy goods vehicles or motorbikes, incidentally; they’d have to have their own rules, as they do already, so in all likelihood they wouldn’t be affected by any of this.

I’d be interested to hear your views on this idea.  Do you see potential flaws in the system?  Is there anything else you’d add?  Leave your comment.  Drive safe.

And the A303 is a fantastic road to experience that reality.  I’ve been driving on it a lot recently, and each journey has built upon the last my love and appreciation for what, for many, is just a road.  You see, the A303 isn’t like a motorway.  It’s slower, certainly, but it’s more scenic, more interesting to drive, and requires more skill to navigate effectively.  Now, I’m not saying that you have to be a qualified driver to make it all the way down the road, it’s not exactly precarious, but being a Driver means I can appreciate and embrace all the twists and turns, the adverse cambers, the ever-changing gradients, the varying speed limits, the wavering lane widths, the unpredictable surface quality.  For someone trying to get from A to B, the A303 is an inefficient pain in the neck that urgently needs resurfacing and making dual-carriageway the entire length of it.  And that’s why I love it so.

On Friday we went to Exmouth to visit my grandparents.  We took the A37 from Shepton Mallet down to the A303, which became the A30 before joining the M5 for a single junction, and then peeling off onto another A road that took us to Exmouth.  And in the evening, after much chat and a lovely lunch, we came back.

Then, on Saturday, having discovered that the puppet workshop that had prevented us going to the family party that afternoon had been cancelled at the last minute, we drove to Exmouth again.  It was an unexpected joy to be able to join the family for Grandpa’s birthday, and it was wonderful to see everyone.  It’s been a while since their front room has been that crowded!

And in the evening, instead of repeating the journey again, we turned left at the M5 and headed down the A380 to Paignton to stay overnight at my parents’ house.  We went to church with them on Sunday morning, said hello to lots of old friends, showed off our Samuel, and after a Sunday roast we headed home, back along the A303 again.

So you might say I’ve had more than my usual helping of A303 this weekend.  And despite an aching lower back and very tired eyes, I loved every minute of it.

There are some high points that I’d like to share with you, but I’d actually like to start with a particular favourite that happens to be on the A30, heading away from Exeter.  Once the noisy concrete dual-carriageway melts away into country lanes and we begin the climb into the Blackdown Hills, there is a beautiful stretch where the trees envelope the road like a tunnel, wrapping you in a warm, dark blanket of leaves and dappled light in the summer.  And in the winter when the trees are bare you can peer through the gaps and see out over a wide and glorious valley, with houses nestled in the hills on the far side.

Then the A30 melts into the A303, and the thrill continues to grow.  The hills come one after the other, with not a straight bit of road to be seen.  At one point there is a tight corner, signposted at being 25mph maximum.  With an empty car, with firm suspension and precise balance (like a Mini, for instance), this corner can be taken at 40mph at least by someone with skill and guts.  I know.  It doesn’t take a car with an enormous engine to enjoy good handling, I did it in a 998cc Mini City.

All along there are corners of various tightness, some requiring more concentration than others.  There are plenty of opportunities for making use of the whole width of the lane, clipping the apex as you go round, and taking a series of successive bends as if it were a chicane.  There are hills both steep and long, each requiring a different timing for an effective down-shift.  Changing gear, after all, is not a science – it’s an art; beautiful in its arrangement, flexible in its execution, expressive in its delivery.  You can tell a lot about a person by the way they change gear.  And the A303 is a wonderful road to exhibit all these different driving skills in a safe environment, without the danger of a rally course or race track, without the speed, without the risk to life and limb.  It’s just a road.  It just happens to be a beautiful one, that brings out the true colours of a person’s driving.

And yes, I am a geek, for all that, if only because I know about hitting apexes and think about cars as body parts.  I am, after all, a Driver.

P.S. While writing this post I came across a fantastic road dictionary, complete with cartoon illustrations.  Well worth a read for anyone interested in knowing a little more about our roads.

Now, I see myself as a very level-headed person.  I don’t get stressed, I don’t get angry, I don’t judge people.  Until I get into a car, apparently.  While on the roads recently I’ve noticed just how much I judge the other road users, mentally criticising their driving abilities and in some cases even their choice of car.  It came as a bit of a surprise, actually, that I would so easily fall into this habit of judgement.  So I thought I’d share with you what form this judgement takes.

Middle lane hoggers are widely accepted as being excruciatingly annoying, not just to me but pretty much everyone (which begs the question: if everyone hates them, who are all these people in the middle lane?).  I make a point of observing the rules of the road, pulling into the inside lane (no, not the slow lane, that’s not what it’s called and isn’t what it’s for) and only changing lane to overtake.  If there’s a car in front sitting in the middle lane and not overtaking anything, it winds me up.  I’ll deliberately come along in the inside lane, and then when the coast is clear pull across all three lanes, right behind them, overtake, and then go back into the inside lane.  Obviously I do this with all the required signalling and mirroring, leaving safe distances and not swerving.  Obviously.  But the intention of this is to make it absolutely clear to the other person that I do not approve of them being in the middle lane, and remind them that they should be in the inside lane.  Frustratingly, very seldom do they take the hint.  Clearly they’re just not concentrating on the road, and should probably have their drivers license torn up and their car crushed.  Let’s see you flaunt the traffic rules now…

Speed is another of my pet hates.  I make a point of driving at 70mph at all times, unless I have to slow down to let others past before I overtake something.  69 is too slow.  71 is too fast.  It has to be bang on 70 for me to be satisfied.  So if I overtake someone, they’re doing less than 70, and I then have to wonder why.  Okay, if they’re a lorry, coach or a car pulling a trailer then that’s allowed, because they’re limited to 60.  But for anyone else, if they have a fairly modern car, there is absolutely no reason to be doing less than 70mph.  The car is capable of it, it’s safe for them to do so.  If they’re not prepared to be driving that fast, that brings into question their ability to control the car at those speeds, in which case they shouldn’t be there in the first place.  Driving at 70 doesn’t take any more skill than driving at 60, so if someone decides that 70 is too fast then I would say that they should be equally cautious about driving at 60, and if they’re not safe driving at 70 then I’m not sure I want to be sharing the road with them, frankly.

That can also be turned on its head, of course.  Anyone overtaking me is clearly doing more than 70mph.  That is in clear defiance of the speed limit, and is therefore against the law.  And don’t give me any of those poor excuses about the 10% allowance for the speedo – that may have been a problem in the past but modern cars are all very reliable now.  If you’re overtaking me, you’re flaunting the traffic rules and are therefore irresponsible.  Or, alternatively, you’re not paying attention to your speed, and are therefore careless and unsafe.  In any case, if you’re overtaking me then you too deserve to be banned from the roads.

Then I get onto the choice of car.  I have a cheap and cheerful Ford Escort.  It’s not big, it’s not clever, it’s not killing the world.  It’s safe and well built, and I’ve found it to be very reliable.  My only gripe is that its engine is too big.  It has a 1.8 litre Zetec engine, which develops around 120bhp.  That’s more than I need, really, as fun as it is.  Cruising along the motorway, you shouldn’t really need to use any more than 30bhp anyway.  So when someone speeds past me in a sports car, or an executive saloon, I scoff.  You with your 3 litre turbocharged engine.  You, sat in your Porshe or your Merc, burning fuel like it’s going out of fashion, with millions of horsepowers sitting there doing nothing.  Not only is that an insult to the car, which is capable of far more than you are letting it do, but it’s also a complete waste of money and petrol.  If you’re desperate for a leather interior, fine, get a top of the range Mondeo with a diesel engine.  The only reason you could legitimately have to own a car with more than, say, 150bhp, is if you’re either pulling a heavy load or you’re doing motorsport on a race track somewhere.  Public roads therefore do not need lambos and bentleys.  If you’re driving one on the same road as me, you’re in the wrong place.

And then there are the people who don’t indicate before making a manoeuvre.  The people who pull into your lane right in front of you giving you no safe distance between.  The people who drive insanely close to your back end.  The people who forget to put their lights on when it gets dark.  The people who swerve from one side of the lane to the other without any apparent control of the car.  The people who lob their finished cigarette ends out of the window to be caught up in the air intake of the car behind.

And with all that judgement acknowledged, I hang my head in shame.  Not because I’m guilty of the same flaws, because I’m not.  I’m guilty of judging everyone else on the road.  By doing so, I’ve unwittingly placed myself at the top of the pack, better than everyone else, without blame.  And not only is that unfair to all the drivers I’ve not noticed, but it’s not a very healthy opinion to have of myself either.  I am not a perfect driver, much as I would love to be, and even if I was it’s not my place to criticise other road users, even if it is only in the silent confines of my own thoughts.

So, if I’ve ever shared the road with you, I apologise for my judgmentalism.  And let us all drive on in peace and unity together…

Following that purchase the Escort became our daily runner, and the Mini was sold prior to us moving house – the sale of the Mini paid for the removals van and some of the white goods we bought when we moved in.  And the Escort has continued to drive beautifully without problems, and we have certainly appreciated the air conditioning a few times too.

However, it did come as a considerable worry when I checked the car over the day before we went to camp (which I still have yet to write about – sorry!).  The oil level was fine, if a bit dirty, and everything else in the engine bay looked fine, but I was aware that the exhaust had been rattling.  Closer inspection showed that it was just loose, and securing it properly would fix that no problem.  What I hadn’t expected to see was a large amount of rust on the rear subframe.  Not good.

The power of prayer held the car together that week, I’m sure.  Going to camp we had the car loaded to the roof with clothes, fancy dress items, and quite a lot of musical instruments and related equipment.  I tried to keep as much of the weight towards the front of the car, to try to keep as much weight as I could off the rear wheels, but beyond that I had to rely on God to keep the car in one piece.  The drive to camp was beautiful, but I would have enjoyed it a lot more had I not been nearly trembling with fear every time I spotted a pothole.  Thankfully God answered my barrage of prayers and got us to camp without problem, and back again at the end of the week.  Actually, camp was a great boost for me, rekindling my trust in God – on the way to camp I was fearful, but on the way back I had confidence in my Lord to protect and provide for us, and the return journey was actually quite pleasant.

Last week we had visitors (hi girls, if you’re reading), so we had to carry on using the car to ferry everyone around – again, prayer was a common denominator in every journey, but it was a prayer of confidence in God’s ability to work miracles in a car that should have been crippled already.  So it wasn’t until this morning that I was able to take the car into a garage to have it serviced.

Frampton’s garage seems very professional and helpful, and I received a phone call from them earlier with the report.  They had looked the car over and assessed how much work needed to be done, and how long it would take, taking into account the subframe and some other bits and pieces that needed doing.  £600.  Ouch.  That’s nearly as much as the car is worth.  Most insurance companies would probably think twice about having that work done, I’m sure.  Still, we’ve weighed up the options, and it’s clear that although £600 is a lot to spend on repairs to a car, especially an older one, it’s still a lot less than replacing the car outright.  If nothing else, I just can’t entertain the idea of scrapping a car that is in such good condition elsewhere.  Sure, it’s got problems, but the interior is beautiful and the engine is sound, and squashing it into a box just doesn’t seem right.

So I’ve told them to go ahead with the repairs.  I can just about cover the cost of the work, and hopefully then the car will last another few years yet.  I guess with hindsight I could have paid more initially and got a newer car that wouldn’t need work doing to it a year later.  But then there’s still no guarantee, even with a newer car, that it won’t fall apart.  That’s the risk you take buying a cheap car – bargain it may be, but it may bite you later on.