My Austin Seven

My Austin Seven 

           

Story number 4  'My Austin Seven' tells the story of my first little car I bought for less than a hundred quid in the early 1950s.  I loved that little car.  To make loved in that car set oneself up for a double hernia and a hell of a lot of laughs.

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A few weeks ago, I noticed in the morning Herald, a photograph of a couple of old codgers sitting in their pride and joy.  It was a 1929 Austin Seven motor car, at a British vintage car show held in the Park over a previous weekend.              According to that article, those two oldies restored that little car to its former glory, over a period of several years.

            For me at that moment, memories flooded back sixty or seventy years, to a time when I owned a little Austin Seven motor car.  I’m not entirely sure, but I think it was a 1935 model.  I loved that little car.

            In 1952, as a fifteen year old apprentice, I was learning to drive a motor vehicle.  My boss at the time, allowed me to take the work truck down the lane past the timber racks and into the garage at the end of each day. I don’t know how he would have reacted if I had taken out the back wall, or demolished one of the doors.

            The following morning, it was my job to reverse the truck out of the garage and help load it for the days work.  That little chore carried on for several weeks.

            One morning, completely out of the blue, I was advised it was my turn to drive the rest of the crew to the job, several miles out into the country.  It was the boss’s view; I could gain valuable experience for sitting my licence.

           

            One night after our evening meal, I informed my father that I was learning to drive the work truck.  That news was received with his legendary grunt. 

            Then, when I suggest I take the family Model A, for a practice run up the hill around the cemetery and back, with the view to gaining a few more skills.  Jeez Wayne, that little proposal blew a cloud of cobwebs and wax from the old mans ears.  He trusted me, so he said, yet somehow his trust never extended far enough for me to get behind the steering wheel of his precious Model A.

            I suspect he had visions of his car being wrapped around a lamp post in the course of one of my practice sessions.  That sort of scenario was highly unlikely, for the speedometer could barely reach speeds of 35 miles per hour.  

           

To read the story you will need to get hold of the book when it come out shortly