Happy 52nd, Wreck!

    It's a bit of a milestone tomorrow. On the 1st of March 1960, a couple down in Devon bought a new car. 35 years later they sold it to my mate B who is the World Expert on Rusty Old Wrecks, and since he had no space for an extra Wreck but had to save it from the crusher, he sold it to me.
    And though my stewardship hasn't been perfect it's still in one piece, more importantly it's on the road. It starts on the button, its engine has a reliable cooling system, and thanks to the Magic Can Of Stuff it doesn't drink oil any more. What more could you wish for from a car!
    Winter is fading away from Southern England. The roads are dry, they are no longer salting them and it's just about safe do take the Wreck out without harming it. I have a road trip to make on Saturday as it happens, off to sunny Berkshire.
    Now here's my quandary. I'd like to ditch the scruffy bloke for the day, because in the case of the people I'm meeting I can do that. I have no worries doing stuff as girl or driving anywhere, but I've always done so in the Rollerskate. It's modern and anonymous, I can trust it not to break down. The Wreck by comparison is an unknown quantity. And a conspicuous choice at that, people look at you when you drive a Wreck. It should make a couple of hours drive each way with no worries, but there is always that frisson of doubt. What if it suffers a terminal mishap, would I want to be stranded as girl? I guess it's something of a Real Life Test, as if I were full-time I'd have no choice.
    In reality there's not much I can't fix on a Wreck by the roadside. And the differences between boy and girl in jeans and a jumper are fairly minor, a makeup wipe, a surreptitious removal of a little padding, and perhaps a quick-change to a scruffier jumper. So whatever happens I'll deal with it.
    But it is another confidence test, and whether it's one I have the courage to take I guess I'll be able to tell you on Saturday.