Ali car ownership has been a rather jolly affair lately.
After a pretty shambolic summer, now known as monsoon season, the last couple of weeks have proved surprisingly Seven-friendly. The Land Rover has seen plenty of use in keeping with the time of year. But then, that's what it's intended for - the Great British winter.
So it's good to able to report that twice in the last week the Caterham has gobbled up two whole tanks of fuel in the name of recreation which equates to a good few of hundred miles of blatting, even for a Cross Flow.
The first tank of fuel took me and the car to Central London, perhaps not the first choice for a blat. But done at the right time it can be a truly unique experience. And that time is the first few hours of a Monday morning in the run up to Christmas. I'd been toying with the idea of repeating a sight-seeing tour of the Capital like the one I attended in September last year, when over twenty cars met up and made a general but legal nuisance of themselves around town. So, in my own personal version of Jim'll Fix It, I wrapped up warm, donned my best stripey scarf and headed up the M3.
And what a treat was in store for a small car in a big city. Starting at the Royal Albert Hall I zig-zagged west across London, traversing the Thames on numerous occasions. It wasn't the fastest of blats but, with a relatively warm night for the time of year and unusually light traffic due to the impending festive season, it was no less enjoyable than an open-road trip. Speed bumps hindered progress occasionally, as did the Sat Nav's inability to keep up at times. At one point I pulled over in a swanky back street in Fulham to allow Mr Garmin to catch his breath. Expensive Victorian villas lined the street, with a traditional-looking Christmas tree in each bay window complimenting the lights strung down the street. The sodium street lights won through though and bathed everything in an orange glow. It was eerily quiet, the distant sounds of city nightlife mingling in the background. As I sat there, with the car ticking itself cool, a fox popped out from one of the front gardens and trotted nonchalantly along the pavement, completely oblivious to my presence. As he came past the car he stopped and looked - not in a startled way as you'd expect for urban wildlife, just an unassuming glance, almost looking the car over in much the same way most humans do when they see a Seven. The fox looked away briefly as a police car sirened past the end of the street, then looked back again, this time directly at me. It blinked wearily a couple of times before baring it's small but menacing canines in a wide yawn and then scampered away, again with no sign of feeling threatened.
In a strictly blokey kind of way, it was a bit of a touching moment and as the driver of a Seven I felt a certain affinity with the feral dog. We were both out in the middle of the night with just ourselves to consider and not wanting to intrude on anyone else, yet both no doubt frowned upon by local residents and Health & Safety consultants alike.
I pushed on through the City. It was really late by now so just South of Tower Bridge I lapped a roundabout, crossed back over the river then traced the Thames back as far as Westminster where I then cut up to the A4, and headed home.
As I lowered the garage door it was just getting light but it had been a great blat.
The following afternoon, after a suitably lengthy lie-in, I rolled the car out of the garage to clean off the condensed smog from the London blat. But the great weather persisted, so in a spontaneous moment of "Built to be driven, not to be washed" I chucked my favourite bucket back in the shed and strapped in again.
The roads were still bone dry, quite astounding really, and in contrast to the Cityblat the night before, I opted for some rural road time aiming for Petersfield and a frequent target from the summer - the Seven Stars.
During the run down there I noticed the instrument lighting had quit - all of it - though maybe this is no bad thing as the entire driving experience is less distracted although there is the constant fear of running out of petrol. Then again, as a Cross Flow driver one gets used to this even when the fuel gauge is visible.
The off-side sidelights had also failed, immediately suggesting a blown fuse. Bending ungraciously under the dash I gave the fuse holder a quick prod and coincidentally the dashboard lights flickered on. But typical for a Caterham, as soon as I took a step back they went out again.
It's like the damn car has some kind of comedy timing circuit somewhere.
Venturing inside the pub I ordered a Caesar salad, some real ale (ABV less than 5% for legal reasons) and some tin foil.
The beer was refreshing, the salad surprisingly filling and the tin foil very conductive, and ideal for wedging a loose fuse in it's holder.
A plot by Lucas to plunge the world in to eternal darkness.....foiled.
