In fact, everything went off.
Having got to the bottom of the "Will they? Won't they?" headlights, and with the full windscreen fitted, the Seven was all ready for some early summer social blatting. I'd also managed to source that most elusive accessory, a Willing Female Passenger. The WFP was a little cautious after the headlight episode, but after much reassurance agreed to a quick blat over to Butser Hill for a charming sunset picnic, watching dusk descend over the South Coast, spotting the landmarks of Southampton and the Solent as they lit up one by one.
The scene couldn't have been more perfect if it had been scripted by Richard Curtis with Hugh Grant and Hollywood's latest lady in mind - the deserted hillside, a warm gentle breeze, no screaming kids to ruin the evening, and an empty sky that blended overhead from an orangey glow in the West to an inky dark blue in the East.
Come home time, the tone changed a little from idyllic al fresco snacking to a chilly roadside waiting game.
Returning to the car, the WFP wrapped up warm as advised, the picnic basket was firmly lashed to the rear of the car, we each squeezed in to our respective seats (with suitable mirth I might add), at which point the car delivered its punchline to the headlight saga.
So...Waggle the gear lever to check it's in neutral, depress the clutch, poke the throttle a few times and turn the ignition key.
But instead of the usual clattering of parts followed by a healthy roar and stink of unleaded, the engine simply whirred pathetically a couple of times then quit, replaced by the sniggering chatter of the starter solenoid.
My shoulders sagged. WFP looked at me. I looked at WFP.
"You said you'd fixed it"
"I did. This is something else"
With hindsight I'm not sure this was such a good idea. What's worse? A recurring problem, or two separate ones in as many days?
Still, bump starting a car is not the sole remit of Verner von Braun, so pointing the car down hill a little, offering WFP a reassuring and perhaps staggeringly confident "Never mind, watch this" I eased off the brake and let the car roll away, gather a bit of momentum then dumped the clutch.
Success. The Crossflow banged in to life and for a brief moment things were looking up, illuminated by the recently renovated headlights, thus supporting my previous claim that I'd fixed them.
But not for long. An entire three miles later the car was totally dead. Completely and utterly drained of any electricity by the effort of illuminating the headlights and sparking the spark plugs, this immediately stank of a dead alternator. Getting to Butser Hill the Seven had survived on the battery alone. The return journey, without any kind of mobile top-up and the added electrical weight of the lights was all too much.
We rolled to a gentle halt in the entrance to a dark and deserted Tesco car park.
As WFP commented, it could have been worse. It could've been raining. It could've been much worse. I could've been with a passenger who wasn't quite as open minded.
A little over an hour later the car was its second recovery truck in as many days.
A little over two hours later it was back in the garage. A quick check of the battery revealed an impressive 2.8 volts left in the battery. I say impressive because the car had soldiered on, squeezing every last drop of potential difference from the cells.
So, a new alternator.
Sourcing parts for a Seven can be either blissfully simple, or a campaign to make King Arthur and his quest for the Holy Grail look like a rank amateur.
For the new alternator, the latter applied.
The conversation with the chap behind the counter at the local motor factors soon turned in to some kind of back-catalogue of classic '70s Fords spawned during the heady days of Dagenham. Cortina, Granada, Escort, Fiesta.....curious, I thought, that Ford adopted names either of continental holiday resorts or porn mags, and I wondered if this was some subtle reflection of the exact nature of the joys of motoring that came with each car.
Most of the compatible bits were, unsurprisingly, unavailable with no known delivery date. That was the case until we chanced upon the parts list for perhaps the sportiest of Dag Dustbins, the most fixed of the Fix Or Repair Daily stable - the slopey-backed Capri, eventually settling on the monster 2.3 V6 as having a suitable alternator.
This was good news on two fronts. First, the car would soon be back on the road, fully charging, but more than that it would have something in common with a Capri, the motoring weapon of choice for iconic covert coppers Bodie & Doyle.
And so it follows, I now have something in common with Bodie & Doyle.
So there you have it. Caterham Seven - the choice of Professionals everywhere.
Having got to the bottom of the "Will they? Won't they?" headlights, and with the full windscreen fitted, the Seven was all ready for some early summer social blatting. I'd also managed to source that most elusive accessory, a Willing Female Passenger. The WFP was a little cautious after the headlight episode, but after much reassurance agreed to a quick blat over to Butser Hill for a charming sunset picnic, watching dusk descend over the South Coast, spotting the landmarks of Southampton and the Solent as they lit up one by one.
The scene couldn't have been more perfect if it had been scripted by Richard Curtis with Hugh Grant and Hollywood's latest lady in mind - the deserted hillside, a warm gentle breeze, no screaming kids to ruin the evening, and an empty sky that blended overhead from an orangey glow in the West to an inky dark blue in the East.
Come home time, the tone changed a little from idyllic al fresco snacking to a chilly roadside waiting game.
Returning to the car, the WFP wrapped up warm as advised, the picnic basket was firmly lashed to the rear of the car, we each squeezed in to our respective seats (with suitable mirth I might add), at which point the car delivered its punchline to the headlight saga.
So...Waggle the gear lever to check it's in neutral, depress the clutch, poke the throttle a few times and turn the ignition key.
But instead of the usual clattering of parts followed by a healthy roar and stink of unleaded, the engine simply whirred pathetically a couple of times then quit, replaced by the sniggering chatter of the starter solenoid.
My shoulders sagged. WFP looked at me. I looked at WFP.
"You said you'd fixed it"
"I did. This is something else"
With hindsight I'm not sure this was such a good idea. What's worse? A recurring problem, or two separate ones in as many days?
Still, bump starting a car is not the sole remit of Verner von Braun, so pointing the car down hill a little, offering WFP a reassuring and perhaps staggeringly confident "Never mind, watch this" I eased off the brake and let the car roll away, gather a bit of momentum then dumped the clutch.
Success. The Crossflow banged in to life and for a brief moment things were looking up, illuminated by the recently renovated headlights, thus supporting my previous claim that I'd fixed them.
But not for long. An entire three miles later the car was totally dead. Completely and utterly drained of any electricity by the effort of illuminating the headlights and sparking the spark plugs, this immediately stank of a dead alternator. Getting to Butser Hill the Seven had survived on the battery alone. The return journey, without any kind of mobile top-up and the added electrical weight of the lights was all too much.
We rolled to a gentle halt in the entrance to a dark and deserted Tesco car park.
As WFP commented, it could have been worse. It could've been raining. It could've been much worse. I could've been with a passenger who wasn't quite as open minded.
A little over an hour later the car was its second recovery truck in as many days.
A little over two hours later it was back in the garage. A quick check of the battery revealed an impressive 2.8 volts left in the battery. I say impressive because the car had soldiered on, squeezing every last drop of potential difference from the cells.
So, a new alternator.
Sourcing parts for a Seven can be either blissfully simple, or a campaign to make King Arthur and his quest for the Holy Grail look like a rank amateur.
For the new alternator, the latter applied.
The conversation with the chap behind the counter at the local motor factors soon turned in to some kind of back-catalogue of classic '70s Fords spawned during the heady days of Dagenham. Cortina, Granada, Escort, Fiesta.....curious, I thought, that Ford adopted names either of continental holiday resorts or porn mags, and I wondered if this was some subtle reflection of the exact nature of the joys of motoring that came with each car.
Most of the compatible bits were, unsurprisingly, unavailable with no known delivery date. That was the case until we chanced upon the parts list for perhaps the sportiest of Dag Dustbins, the most fixed of the Fix Or Repair Daily stable - the slopey-backed Capri, eventually settling on the monster 2.3 V6 as having a suitable alternator.
This was good news on two fronts. First, the car would soon be back on the road, fully charging, but more than that it would have something in common with a Capri, the motoring weapon of choice for iconic covert coppers Bodie & Doyle.
And so it follows, I now have something in common with Bodie & Doyle.
So there you have it. Caterham Seven - the choice of Professionals everywhere.
