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.

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…

Anyway, enough of this mushy stuff, back to the story.

AM and Sarah came to visit on Thursday, having made the journey in Sarah’s little blue Fiesta all the way from Colchester (a good 4 hour drive, not including loo stops), and arrived on our doorstep laden with hugs and presents for Samuel.  Both their presence and their presents were very much appreciated (see what I did there?).

Of course, because our previously vacant spare room is now a fully occupied nursery, they had booked a few nights at a local B&B (Belfield House, in case you’re interested).  Not sure why that’s important, but I thought I’d mention it anyway.

As a matter of fact, very little was ‘done’ during their visit.  We didn’t go and see the sights, we didn’t go to the cinema, we didn’t go for a long walk in the countryside.  We just sort of sat.  And chatted.  And that was just fine by us.  On the Friday I didn’t see a huge amount of them, in fact, because I was still working, so I left them to it downstairs to chat some more and marvel at the wonderous bundle of joy that is our son.  After all, this was the first time they’d actually seen him in the flesh – a Skype video call doesn’t quite mean the same thing as holding him in your arms for real.

AM came with two surprises up her sleeve.  First was a taggie blanket.  If you’ve not come across them before, you’ve clearly never lived.  They’re a simple blanket, except that all around the edge are as many tags as possible.  The idea sprung from some bright spark’s observation that little children always seem more interested in the silky label on soft toys than the toys themselves, and exploited the fascination by making something that was more label than toy.  Hence the taggie blanket.  Of course, Anne-Marie being Anne-Marie, this one was hand-made.  Every single tag is made of a different material.  Some are narrow, some are wide, some are frilly, some are lacy, some are stretchy, some are stringy, some are silky, some are furry, some are green.  Brilliant.

The second surprise we didn’t get until the Friday, because AM hadn’t finished it.  Or, rather, she’d almost finished it but hadn’t put it in the frame yet.  It’s a beautiful cross-stitched picture of Noah’s Ark, with Samuel’s name written underneath.  It’ll look lovely hung on the nursery wall.

We also went round Tesco on the Friday, which is something the four of us haven’t done in years.  Causing havoc in a supermarket: Check.

When it comes to local attractions, in all honesty there isn’t a lot to choose from.  I guess that’s one of the inevitable downsides to living in the middle of nowhere.  So when we took the girls to Wells, it wasn’t much of a surprise that they weren’t exactly bowled over.  It is, after all, a far cry from some other cities you could go to.  In fact, calling Wells a city is something of a gross over-exaggeration.  It’s a small town, but anyone else’s standards.  It just happens to be one of the most concentrated areas of civilisation in our rural corner of Somerset.  And it has a cathedral to boot.  It’s a nice cathedral, though; far bigger and more impressive than you’d expect from such an otherwise miniature town.

So we all hopped in the car and went to Wells.  We wandered through town, and I made a point of telling them to take in the sights, just in case they missed them.  Through town was just a short walk, and we found ourselves in the famous Wells marketplace, a bustling hive of stall-based commerce.  At least, that’s what the locals would have called it.  I don’t think AM or Sarah were convinced.  It didn’t take long to wander round, and there wasn’t much to hold their attention.  I saw some pretty clocks.  Sarah found some gaffer tape.  Anne-Marie bought a little 2010 diary.  And that pretty much exhausted Wells.  We did wander round the cathedral for a while though, not all together though because Samuel decided to choose that location as the best for a good scream (maybe he’s got an ear for acoustics).

And when we got back, I fixed Sarah’s car.  She’d been on the lookout in Wells for gaffer tape because she had decided she needed to tape up the glove box door to stop it falling open.  All the way down from Colchester it had been resting against AM’s shins, which apparently wasn’t all that comfortable.  Turns out the hinges were loose, and all they needed was for the screws to be tightened.  Gaffer tape may be the solution to all problems, but there are solutions and solutions.  We then turned out attention to the screen washers, which were apparently pathetic.  Sure enough, the washer tank was empty, so I helped her fill it.

We also checked the oil level, while the bonnet was open.  To my horror (which I tried to hide) the engine was empty.  Not just sitting on the minimum marker on the dip stick, oh no, this was barely wetting the very end.  Not good.  How the car survived the journey down, I really don’t know.  Then again, the same thing happened with Neddy when I bought him; I drove that Mini all the way from Kent to Essex with no oil in the engine, which isn’t supposed to be possible, and it lived to tell the tale.  Clearly, God works miracles even when we don’t realise we should be asking for them.  Anyway, we hopped into my car and went to the garage to get some supplies, and came back and filled the Fiesta’s dry engine with several litres of oil.  It was a hefty bottle, so there was still some left, which is good because she’ll have some for next time she needs to top up (which hopefully will only be a small amount next time).

And then we said our goodbyes.  It had been wonderful to have them to visit.  They’d kept us entertained with their banter, they’d all had cuddles with Samuel (despite a growth spurt kicking in as they arrived, which made him a little more grumpy than usual) and watched him having his bath.  And on Saturday evening we all exchanged yet more hugs and waved them off; they’d spend the night at the B&B again before heading off back to Colchester in the morning.

So thank you, dear friends and sisters, for keeping us company and making us laugh and sharing our joy and drinking our drinks.

The front subframe also now has a diagonal strut on each side, further strengthening it, which is no bad thing given that’s where a lot of the force is going to be taken, right over the wheels.  I’ve also widened the front subframe to give me more space between the steering shaft and the drive shaft, which has allowed for a far more compact yet satisfactory connection between engine and drive shaft.  It now runs smoothly and efficiently with only the most essential cogs in between (I want to retain a high cog ratio so that the engine spins fast even when the car is moving slowly).  Oh, and the front subframe has been significantly shortened, too.

I haven’t touched the rear end today, and I still haven’t made a start on the bodywork, but that’ll come.  I figured out today a way of having powered lights in the front (thanks to a couple of my old models), which will be fun.  Not particularly bright, but the effect will still be there.  Just about.  Unfortunately I’m coming down with a cold, so staying up late to work on the project just isn’t going to happen.  I also haven’t taken any photos of today’s progress, so I’ll try to do that tomorrow morning when there’s some nice natural light, and update this post with some close-up shots. Photos now included!

I’ve made a start on the rear of the car too, building the rear axle.  Rather than tackling the complexities of independent driven suspension at the rear I’ve gone for a live axle with movement in only one direction.  It makes it a lot simpler, though considerably less realistic – movement on one side of the car will affect the other side just as much, which isn’t ideal.  Still, at least it works.  There’s a differential in there too, and the drive shaft has been connected to the engine at the front of the car.  I wanted to have the engine spinning at a good speed when the car is moving, so I’ve geared it all up accordingly.  Unfortunately that does mean that there’s a fair amount of resistance, but I may be able to live with that.  It may be that I’ll be able to connect in an electric motor later on to drive the engine directly and have it drive the car at a manageable speed.

I’ve also been trying to address the problem of the steering.  While the steering/suspension system that I took from the other model does work, it’s proving a little imprecise.  This is largely down to the ultra-compactness of the steering mechanism, compounded by the big heavy wheels I’m using.  I’ve geared it down as I’ve routed the steering shaft past the engine, but now there is so much play in the action that it’s pretty hard to keep in a straight line, especially when one wheel hits a small bump – the front wheels just turn on their own.  I think I might have to re-think the steering mechanism and try to build a little more control into it, otherwise it’s going to be undrivable.

No idea what sort of car it’s going to be yet, or what it’s going to look like, or even what colour it’s going to be.  I guess that’ll present itself later when the chassis is done.  This project is very evolutionary – it feels like the model is instructing me on how it should be built rather than the other way round!

I know it’s Easter Sunday, and I really am excited and thrilled to know that Jesus rose from the dead, but there’s more – Neddy lives too!  It’s clearly the day for resurrections.  After several months of being garaged, my lovely Mini is now back on the road, healthy and alive and really loving it!

I was actually hoping to sell Neddy way back in November, when we bought our Ford Escort Ghia X, which was intended to replace our little Mini.  Unfortunately I couldn’t find a buyer at the time, what with the credit crunch driving car prices down, so Neddy sat almost completely forgotten in the garage, not seeing the light of day or feeling the tarmac under his tyres.  I did make sure the car was MOTed before Christmas, but due to lack of buyers I opted to SORN the car rather than renewing the tax disc, with the intention of getting the ball rolling again in the spring, by which time hopefully the car market would have improved.

A few weeks ago I got the insurance sorted, got the car taxed again, and had every intention of getting the car back on the road.  Unfortunately I just never got round to it, what with everything else getting in the way, so Neddy stayed in the garage.  Yesterday afternoon I decided enough was enough and I just had to get Neddy up and running again, hopefully so that he can be sold before we move.  I pushed the car out of the garage and tried starting it up – not a sausage.  A trip out to Halfords equipped me with some jump leads and a battery charger, so I connected the Mini to the Escort and tried to jump start it – again, no joy.  The starter motor kicked in and turned the engine over, but it refused to do much more than that.  It spluttered and gave very faint signs of trying to start, but nothing more.  Not good.  In addition, I noticed a small waft of white smoke coming from the engine bay, so stopped what I was doing fairly sharpish.

On further inspection the cause of the smoke appeared to be a wire connected to the fuel inertia cut-off switch (which stops the engine in the event of a crash).  I touched the wire and it literally fell apart.  No wonder the engine wasn’t keen to start.  The insulation around the wire had worn through, by the looks of it through years of rubbing against a nearby bit of plastic in the engine bay, and the wire inside had rusted through.  That left the Mini stranded outside the garage, with no clear way of getting it back in (it’s on a slight hill, so pushing it was out of the question).

This afternoon I went back with a little more time and significantly more determination, and set about putting right as much as I could.  The wires leading to the switch were my first concern.  The wires are actually connected to a plug in the bottom of the switch, so I was able to unplug that end and a gentle tug snapped the other wire too, which apparently was in almost the same condition.  A little poking around showed that the wires had rusted along inside the insulation, which means there’s no way of stripping the wires and reconnecting them – the plug can’t be taken apart, so I’m going to have to order a new one.  In the meantime I’ve simply connected the two wire ends together, bypassing the switch altogether.

While I was at it I fitted the recharged battery, and tried to resolve an issue I’d had before with the negative battery lead not doing up tight enough and popping off the battery terminal.  I eventually got the bolt undone and pinched the ring with a pair of pliers to make the whole thing a tighter fit, and (after accidentally putting the battery in the wrong way round first time and causing a brief spark – oops!) put it all back together without complaint.

So that just left trying to start the engine again.  If it still didn’t work my next stop would be to check the spark plugs.  But I turned the key, and after a little persuasion the engine lumpily kicked into life, stuttering badly to begin with but levelling out after a minute or two.  That’s to be expected after a long time of rest, so I wasn’t concerned too much about that.  What joy!  Neddy was running again, and my face was beaming!  I was standing in front of it, looking lovingly into the engine bay, talking to Neddy again just like I used to.

Of course, that necessitated a quick drive, so I shoved all my tools back in the garage, shut everything up, and got in the driver’s seat.  The gear stick felt very foreign to begin with, and the clutch and brake pedals felt very odd indeed, but I soon got the hang of it again – it all came flooding back with pungent familiarity.  I took it easy to begin with, driving slowly round the block, teasing the brakes back into life and letting the engine slowly work its way up to normal running temperature.  Then it was onto some main roads, trundling along at 30 with an enormous smile on my face and the window down so I could hear that lovely exhaust.  The main road turned into a country back road, and with the national speed limit came the familiar temptation to open the engine up and give it some welly!  Neddy bounced happily along the road, clearly enjoying being back where he belonged.  Back on a main road towards home we met up with a tractor which, at the next available clear straight, presented a nice opportunity for letting loose with the go-juice and doing a little overtaking.  Oh the thrills!

The steering actually felt quite heavy after the power steering in the Escort, and the driving position wasn’t exactly perfect either – it’s the case in all Minis, and something we very easily forgive, but the steering wheel is actually off to the left slightly, as are the pedals, which means sitting at an odd angle to drive.  Still, it was enormous fun, and brought back many happy memories.  The sharp steering, the bumpy ride, the throbbing exhaust, the slight unevenness of the braking, the diddy little windscreen wipers and the pathetic window washer pressure, the amazing ability to stick to the road, the thrill of doing 60 and it feeling like 80.  Love it!

The only fly in the ointment really is that now I have to sell my lovely little car.  I had delayed putting the adverts up because I wanted to make sure the car actually worked, otherwise I’d have a hard time trying to sell it at all, but now it’s back on the road it means I really ought to be advertising it again in earnest.  I shall have to do some research to find out what the going rate is at the moment – before the economic slow-down I would have expected to get around £2200, but I reckon it may be worth nearer £1400 now.  I’ll have to see.  And of course if I can’t sell it before we move I’ll have to drive it to the Westcountry and sell it there instead.  Unless of course I can persuade Ellie to let me keep it for the weekends…

The reason for that introduction stems from my experience in the last half an hour, where I had to pick Sarah up from work and deliver her to the university campus where she was catching a coach, as fast as possible.  Not because Sarah was late, but because I forgot.  She had organised this with me several days ago, and yesterday evening I went round to her house so she could put a bag in my boot to save her worrying about it today.  And yet, somehow, I completely forgot about it until 10 minutes after I was supposed to have picked her up.  Grrr.

Some might put this down to the fact that my wife is at work and thus unable to remind me of what’s going on.  Some might just attribute it to me being a muppet.  But if I’m honest I can’t really pin the blame on Ellie, whom I’ve seen only briefly recently, as ships passing in the night – almost literally (she gets in from work around 11:30pm, and leaves the following morning at some unearthly hour).  On this occasion, it just completely slipped my mind.  I had intended on setting an alarm, aware as I was of my tendency to lose track of time and space, but clearly I’d forgotten to set the alarm.  So it was only when Sarah called me at 4:10pm asking if I was lost that I realised what day it was, what time it was, and how the laws of mathematics had ensured that those ten minutes would be subtracted from the time I had left to get to Greenstead.

On the plus side, it did give me my first chance to drive my new car in anger.  I’m not saying I completely flouted the traffic laws, but I’ll admit I gave it some welly where I could.  The Ford Escort GhiaX has a respectable 1.8 litre engine, pumping out a good 150bhp on a good day.  The brakes are simple but effective, and give a good positive response.  However, being the luxury model rather than the sports model, the GhiaX focuses on comfort and tranquility at the cost of ultimate performance.  Yes, the large-bore engine does develop a good wallop of power, but only when you get the revs right up, and gear changes are noticeably sloppy – more the fault of the engine than the gearbox.  Straight-line acceleration is reasonably good, considering it’s pulling a relatively heavy car, full of padding and sound-proofing and air-conditioning and suchlike, but I wouldn’t describe it as exhilarating.  Cornering is about average, with the overall setup being adequate enough to keep the car feeling safe, while not necessarily giving enough stability to be able to really hammer it through the bends.  And the exhaust sounds like a congested bee.  Albeit a rather large bee.

In conclusion, then, the Escort GhiaX is a fantastic little car for pootling around, doing the shopping, visiting grandparents, giving people lifts to the station, and soforth, but attempting anything even remotely… well, fun, the car fails to impress.  It is, after all, a Ghia, not a Cosworth.  For ferrying people from A to B it’s very comfortable and pleasing to drive, but it won’t get your heart pumping no matter how fast you drive.

And, just so you appreciate the effort I went to, Sarah did catch her coach in time.  In fact, after all that, the coach was late.