Once, a long time ago, I think I had a ‘cherished number
plate’. It was on a Vauxhall Viva, circa1969. I bought the car in desperation
in 1980. Home from visiting family in the U.S.A., I needed wheels but had very
little money, fifty pounds, in fact. Fifty pounds couldn’t buy much of a car, but
sometimes there might be a ‘good runner’ for sale with only a month or two left
on its MOT. It was worth reading all the adverts in the used car section of the
local paper. This was one such car. Many shades of green, lots of filler on the
sills and a very snatchy clutch, it was worth every penny of my fifty pounds.
And my dad loved tinkering with cars, which was just as well. Nearly every day
there was something. While I was at work, my dad would be at the nearby scrap
yard looking for parts. We would guess if the car would start or not each
morning. It became more efficient as my dad replaced bits and pieces under the
bonnet. I did the Advanced Drivers Course with the local traffic police in that
car. My tutor, a lovely police officer, used to mock my car, mostly in fun, and
blame my driving, not the funny clutch, until he drove it himself. By the time I
could afford something better, my dad had virtually rebuilt the engine. The
bodywork, which was half metal, or more correctly, half rust, half plaster, or
whatever they fill holes with, was in a sorry state. Slam the door and a bit
more would drop off. It was up for sale. My neighbour thought that was
hilarious and suggested I scrap it, but no, I needed some money for it. The
first person to see it, bought it, and for my asking price of £100. He didn’t
actually want the car, he was after the ‘cherished number plate’, which meant
nothing to me but everything to him. That was the one and only time I made
money on a car. HEN 63F.
A1, that was Blackpool FC on Saturday against Swansea. Another
win, another three points, first class. I
was so happy to have my husband back at the stadium for the first time since
November, though I’m grateful to the family members who have taken his place
and kept me company at home matches during his absence.
My poem, nothing to do with A1, and not even a poem, just
thoughts.
Walking for miles,
Someone’s child,
Hungry, tired, scared.
Someone’s parent,
Anxious for family, friends.
Someone’s partner,
Sick with worry.
No sleep, no rest, just tears and fears.
War-torn people, devastated lives.
Broken burning buildings,
Homes, hospitals, schools.
Soldiers fighting for Ukraine,
Their lives, their families,
Their all.
Someone, something,
Put a stop to Putin.
Russians rebel,
End this now.
Thanks for reading, Pam x
