Most of us can remember the first vehicles we possessed. Not the Dinky toys, tricycles or bikes with dropped handlebars you had as a kid, but motorised road transport.
CN7480 was the registration number of the one and only car my father owned.
It was as if he had passed his test purely for the pleasure of being able to acquire and drive his big old Wolseley, not unlike the model shown, for a while. Having sampled the mixed blessings of mobility and breakdown, he was ready to move on to something else. Moving on, in dad's case, to the No 1 or Eden bus or, more likely, the Shildon AFC team coach (as secretary, not player).
On one Friday evening, we were meant to be driving down to London to see our gran - his mother - and possibly a football match while we were there. It felt as if we were embarking on a serious adventure.
Unfortunately, the Wolseley had other ideas. We didn't seem able to get farther down the road south from Drybourne Avenue, Shildon than to the railway crossings, also Shildon and barely half a mile away, before conking out.
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