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…

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…

One of the great things about being married is that you also gain a whole new family, and whereas traditionally the in-laws are meant to be evil incarnate I’m pleased to say that I love my additional parents very much.  My father-in-law is one of those sort of people who has everything.  If you need a particular garden tool, he’ll have three.  If you need to rig up some lighting for an amateur drama stage, he’ll have more than enough cabling just lying around waiting to be used.  If it’s raining and you didn’t bring an umbrella, he has nine spares.  It does of course mean that going to visit is a battle of wills – if you even hint at not having something, it’ll have been smuggled into your boot before you’ve left.

And then he offered us a trailer tent.

Now, Ellie and I have both had a fair amount of experience camping, in one form or another, and we would both quite happily go on a camping holiday.  I used to go on plenty of family camping holidays when I was growing up, and Ellie has done even more extreme camping in North Wales and Peru.  But with a child on the way, camping was pretty much relegated as something we might go back to in a few years’ time.  But then we were offered a trailer tent, and it was a temptation we just couldn’t pass up.

The first step was getting the car ready.  I spent many hours researching tow bars, weighing up the options and trying to find places nearby that could help.  In the end we went with a company called TopFit, which is based in Gloucester but which mainly operates out of the back of a fleet of vans – rather than you driving your car to their garage, they bring their van to you and work on the car at your home instead.  It was a good price, and the work was done quickly and competently, and our Ford Escort is now equipped with a tow bar with twin electrics.

Then on Saturday we drove up to Gloucester to visit family and pick up the trailer tent.  I had been looking forward to this for some time, actually, rehearsing the entire journey in my head time after time.  First of all we had to get the trailer tent out of Dad’s garage and put it back on its wheels – it has a nifty set of caster wheels that slot onto the side so you can tip it up and store it more efficiently.  Then we had to check that everything was inside that needed to be.  This is where we had to vet everything that Dad picked up, in case he tried to palm off various bits and pieces that we didn’t need but he wanted to get rid of.  We successfully managed to avoid taking ownership of two tables and a wok, but I’m sure once we put it all up we’ll find all sorts of stuff that had been sneaked in without us knowing.

As for the number plate, we sort of bodged that one on this occasion.  The previous number plate had been done with sticky letters, rather than a ‘real’ number plate, so we took those off (with some acid chemical type thing that just happened to be in the garage) and created new letters and numbers with some electrical tape.  It wasn’t too bad actually – a lot better than some number plates you see on the road sometimes.  We’ll get it done properly eventually, but for the sake of the journey home I figured we could get away with it, even it wasn’t using the ‘official’ number plate font.

So then we hooked it up to the car, tested the lights, gave everything one more check, and pulled away.  I was expecting the weight to be a big issue, given that an Escort isn’t a particular big car, but the 1.8 litre engine seemed to cope with it just fine, even pulling away on a slight incline.  In fact, the drive home was mostly uneventful, as if the trailer tent wasn’t there at all.  I did drive more slowly than usual, taking corners carefully and leaving more than the usual amount of stopping space in front.  But the little Escort coped with it all just fine, helped no doubt by the fact that the trailer is actually braked (pressure on the towing bar of the trailer activates its own brakes, which is very clever and seemed to work very well).  I did notice the extra weight going up some of the steeper hills through Somerset, but otherwise it all went swimmingly.

I even set myself a little challenge when we pulled in at a service station on the M5 between Gloucester and Bristol, by pulling into a space that required me to reverse back out.  I did leave enough space at the front so that I could pull out forwards if it all went horribly wrong (the car park was mostly empty), but in the end it was all fine.  I was very pleased that I very naturally got my head around which way to turn to get the trailer to go where I wanted it, and although I would still need plenty of practice to have complete control of it, it was incredibly satisfying to know that I had already mastered the basic principle of it.  Unlike James May.

The biggest challenge was actually when we got back home.  It was dark and raining when we arrived, which made it a bit more miserable, and with Ellie being ‘great with child’ she wasn’t able to lend a hand manually manoeuvring the trailer into the garage.  The bit of drive outside the garage is also on a slight slope, so I had to be careful that the trailer didn’t drift off uncontrollably.  Thankfully there is a handbrake on the front, so I kept hold of that so that I could stop it if it did get out of control.  Then it was just a case of swinging it round and pushing it into the garage.  I say “just” – in actual fact it was a bit of a nightmare.  I pushed and pulled and strained, with my trainers struggling for grip on the wet tarmac, using all my strength and energy trying to get the trailer to move.  And then I realised – the brakes were still slightly on.  Oops.  Once I had released the brake handle fully it was fine, and was into the garage in moments, but I was already exhausted.  A lesson learnt.

So now we have a trailer tent in the garage.  It’ll be spring or summer before we’ll actually get to play with it, but it’ll certainly make holidaying much cheaper.  So thank you, father-in-law, for offloading something onto us that we can make use of.

I also ought to just clarify the title of this post, in case any of you are still confused, as Ellie was.  The coat refers to the fact that it was raining.  The pulling was of the trailer tent, by the car, and later by me.  There is no ‘other woman’.  Promise.

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.

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…

Oh, sorry, you’ll be wanting some context.  Ahem.  Allow me to back up and start again.

I now have a second person on my insurance policy, and much to my wife’s disappointment it’s not her.  My friend Sarah has another driving test coming up next week and wanted to get as much practice as possible before zero-hour, so I put her on my insurance for a week as an additional named driver.  Of course, that’s meant that I’ve had to actually take her out in the car, which was pretty scary, for both of us.

Our first outing was on Tuesday, and was a first for both of us – for Sarah it was the first time she had driving any car other than her instructor’s, and for me it was the first time I had let someone else drive my car.  It took a while for Sarah to get to grips with the car, being larger and heavier and more sensitive than she’s used to.  In fact, that first trip out was pretty hairy, narrowly missing several cars and leaving me digging my fingers into the passenger seat and pressing my right foot firmly into the footwell where the brake pedal ought to be.

Thankfully though today’s outing was much more encouraging.  We went a little further afield, did some higher speeds (on the dual-carriageway), and Sarah was much more confident with her control of the car.  Which was encouraging because it means that a significant proportion of my worries from last time were down to the car rather than her driving ability.  So all is good.

It got me thinking though – could I actually be a professional driving instructor?  I do have a passion for driving, and lots of patience, and I’m usually fairly good at explaining things.  On the other hand, I am a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to driving, and I’m not sure I could cope with just sitting there and letting learner drivers ruin the clutch and the gearbox.  To be honest, I’d prefer to be in the driver’s seat than the passenger’s.  Maybe I should be a chouffeur.  Or a rally driver.  Or maybe I could sit at home and make pretty web sites.  Oh wait, I already do.

One final thing.  I can’t remember exactly how I stumbled across it, but today I found a YouTube channel that I felt compelled to subscribe to.  I’m not a huge YouTuber, and I’ve never subscribed to anything before, so that just shows how good it was.  From what I can tell it’s just this guy in Bath who films himself doing random things.  It’s absolutely hilarious, just my sort of sense of humour!  He’s got a video about how to make the perfect cup of tea, which (appropriately) I watched while drinking a cup of tea.  So if your randomness levels are on a temporary low, check out charlieissocoollike.  It’s worth five minutes of your life.  It really is.

This morning I went to do the weekly food shop at Tesco, but on the way I stopped in at B&Q – that’s when I first noticed things were different.  After all, B&Q is not a child’s playground.  It’s more of a grown man’s playground, full of power tools, electrical items, things that need assembly, all manner of things that most people don’t recognise and wouldn’t know what to do with, and generally a lot of stuff that makes you feel more like a man.  I went in to buy a pack of staples (no, not for a stapler) for hammering into our decking (more on that in a moment), and ended up coming out with a wireless doorbell and a keyring torch as well.

At Tesco I took advantage of the good weather and got my car cleaned by the nice Tesco staff in the car park while I went and did the shopping.  It was quite busy, so they were only just about to start on my car when I wheeled the shopping trolley back to the car half an hour later.  So I sat in the car listening to Classic FM while they all worked around me.  A luxury I would never have entertained in the Mini – I wouldn’t dare let someone with a scary pressure washer near my beautiful and fragile Neddy!  I was pleasantly surprised that even though the Ford Escort is considerably larger than a Mini it still classed as a ‘small’ car to them, so the whole wash was a very reasonable £6.

Back home I put all the shopping away, had lunch, and then prepared to get down and dirty in the big outdoors.  Some of you may know that our decking is a bit of a death-trap in winter – the slightest bit of moisture and the surface becomes slippery as ice.  So, following the advice of the plumber who came and fixed our heating on Friday, I laid some chicken wire over the top to provide a grippy surface.  Hence the need for the steel staples.  I actually used the chicken wire that has been lying in a corner of the decking since the summer, and which used to be a protective cover for our vegetable patch.  It was just the right size, when disassembled, to create a path from the kitchen door to the concrete path, including the little step at the end.  It took a good hour or so to do, what with all the fighting with chicken wire that wanted to sit in a different position and bent staples, but it was all finally hammered down and it looks very professional.  And with another cold snap on its way I think it’s good timing – it should be a good test to see how it fares in properly icy conditions.

While I was out in the garden I also took the opportunity to put out some more bird food, as we’ve been sadly neglecting them the last few months, mainly because Ellie has been at work all the time and I’ve not really noticed or had the inclination.  We don’t have any fat balls at the moment, so that’ll have to go on the next shopping list, but I put out a fresh lot of peanuts and wild bird seeds, some fresh water, some old bread and a few handfuls of dried mealworms scattered around the garden.

With that done I went back to the garage to look at the car, checking all the fluid levels.  Everything looks good, although I still can’t tell how much window washer fluid I’ve got because I don’t know how big the reservoir actually is.  I poured 2 litres of water in, but it’s still not full, and I can’t see the water level, so I can only assume it’s a massive tank hidden away somewhere.  So I moved on and cleaned the inside of the windows and the dashboard, and scrubbed a load of mank off the indicator stalks (a build-up of dead skin and sweat over the last several years – nice).  I also figured out (I think) why the car makes an odd rattly sound when we go round corners (sometimes).  It sounds like something is loose in the boot, but I’ve checked several times and there’s nothing there but a tightly secured spare wheel.  Today I had a brainwave and had a look underneath the car, and sure enough the car has a hollow fixed beam rear axle; the most likely cause is a stone that’s managed to get inside and can’t get back out.  There are holes pointing to the rear of the car to let water out and suchlike, but it’s angled in such a way that it would be pretty much impossible to get a stone back out without taking the axle off and shaking it out.

Then it was the turn of the doorbell.  The bell part plugs into a normal electricity socket, so I’ve put it upstairs on the landing because we don’t tend to use that one very often.  The button is a wireless transmitter with a little button battery inside, which needs to be screwed to the outside wall.  That means drilling into either the brick wall or the wooden doorframe (I haven’t decided which yet).  Unfortunately my cordless drill batteries were dead, so they’re currently on charge in the kitchen.  Once they’re charged I’ll go out and fit the button, but since it’s already beginning to get dark I think that might have to wait until tomorrow.

And now I’m back at my desk, blogging away and reinstalling Windows XP on my PC.  It had been painfully slow, so I decided the time had come for it to be wiped and a fresh install put on, and only install the programs I actually need at the moment.  I did have games and applications and all sorts on there, but since I only use it for browser testing now I’m only going to install web browsers and hopefully that’ll keep it nice and lean and fast.  Every little helps.

So, all in all a very productive day, but not an ounce of chocolate and certainly not enough frivolity.  I shall have to remedy that with something wild and outrageous this evening… any ideas?

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.

Unfortunately, having a Ford Escort as well now as my daily runner, the Mini has been left neglected in the garage.  Now, normally this would be a good thing; the garage is dry and safe, so in that sense it’s the best place for it.  What I forgot to do was disconnect the battery.  As a result, the month and a half it’s been sat stationary has drained the battery almost to its limits, the consequence being that the car won’t start.  Ordinarily, not the end of the world.  But it was supposed to be going in for its MOT today, so that’s had to be postponed until I can get the car running again.

Thankfully the garage round the corner has been very helpful, and has offered to charge the battery overnight to give it a full dose of energy.  They’ll then be able to test it to make sure it’s still working, and if it is I’ll be able to pop it back in the Mini and get it MOTed tomorrow.  If the battery is dead, I can always pop into town and buy a new battery, and still get the car MOTed tomorrow.  So it’s not the end of the world.

It’s just rather frustrating that my own negligence caused the problem in the first place.  I have to admit, I had just sort of forgotten that I had a Mini in the garage.  I did manage to get the car started briefly yesterday by bump-starting it, and had a quick drive around to make sure everything else was still working.  At first the brakes were stuck on a bit, but they soon loosened up.  What surprised me most was how fun it was – I had forgotten just how much like a go-kart the Mini is!  Of course I’ve always known this, but having been driving a ‘normal’ car for the last month and a half I had got used to its refinement and quietness.  Neddy roared and bumped along the road, loving being out on the road again.  It certainly brought a smile to my face!  And a gut-wrenching shame in putting the car up for sale.

There is a ray of hope though for Neddy’s future.  I did have someone get in touch with me the other day enquiring about the Mini, so they should be coming round on Sunday to have a look.  I’m just hoping it will have passed the MOT by then so it’ll be road-worthy, because I’m going to struggle to sell the car if they can’t take it for a test drive!

In other car news, I have also discovered a problem with the Escort.  Actually, to tell the truth, I discovered the problem a while back, but only today found the cause.  I noticed soon after buying the car that it was low on power steering fluid, so topped it up.  I did note at the time that there appeared to be some leakage around the reservoir, but couldn’t see where the leak might be.  Today I found it.  There is a pipe plugged into the top of the reservoir which, I presume, is for bringing the fluid back to the reservoir after it’s been round the system.  The clip holding the rubber pipe on clearly isn’t quite tight enough to make a good seal, and it’s leaking ever so slightly from there.  It’s not a massive problem, as it’s not exactly spurting out all over the place, but I don’t really want to be topping the fluid up every month if I can help it.  So I just need to replace the clip with something a little more adequate, and hopefully that will put that problem to rest.

I suppose it all just goes to show, all cars have problems, not just the old ones.