Let there be [brake] light!

I’m a simple sort of a girl who likes the simple things in life, such as getting my hands dirty. I enjoy fiddling with oily bits, I like grappling with spanners and screwdrivers and ratchets. I need to see how cars and bikes work.

Four out of five of my cars are pre 1990s and have very little in the way of electrickery or gadgets. I much prefer a purer car that doesn’t have too much to say for itself. This probably explains why I sold my Peugeot 307 last year and swapped it for a Series 3 Alfa Romeo Spider. My Pug was always having far too much to say for itself and making decisions without my express permission. Je n'ai pas été impressionné.

Don’t misinterpret me however; I am passionate about a vast array of new cars. The Aston Martin DB9 and new Vantage are absolutely beautiful; I’m even growing to like the look of the new Fiat Panda. The advances in design and automotive technologies never fail to intrigue me, I’m like a sponge, I want to know about everything, in an easy to read, diagrammatic glossy pamphlet sort of a way. But in terms of ownership, I’m a tinkerer. I’m not claiming to be a mechanical expert, far from that, but if I can have a go then a go is what I will have.

But with the Spider I’ve really had no cause to tinker. Following rectification by my genius mechanic of a seemingly terminal problem involving my little Italian being true to her Latin roots by getting very hot very regularly, then giving up entirely to sit seductively by the roadside and simply be gazed upon, she has been impeccably behaved.

When I told my friends I intended on driving an Alfa on my regular commute I was dismissed as an obvious lunatic and advised a level of AA cover that would jump start the Planet should it slip out of orbit. But 7 months on and I have proven my detractors wrong. Through fabulous smile inducing spirited drives around the leafy Buckinghamshire lanes to a treacherous snails’ pace 3 hour 30 mile M4 schlep to work, the Alfa has taken it in her stride. But somewhat disappointingly - still no cause for me to get my hands on her innards.

It is the snails’ pace motorway schleps I undertake daily that I blame for the fact a very red faced man made a decision to threaten a bewildered Muppet with extraction from her little Italian via means other than the door, wildly gesticulating with language mostly involving chickens from what I could gather (well every other word was ‘cluck’) all a few inches from my delicate posteriore di Milano. All for no apparent reason. Was it national keep your top up day? Had I missed a local byelaw pertaining to woman being revoked their driving licence?

I figured something must be awry. There was. Both my brake lights were refusing to perform. Oh dear, kind of fundamental to the stopping of the car and notifying those around you ploy. I was like a metallic pathologist, ‘I must perform investigative surgery – Nurse, quick! The screens!’.

Surgery reported that bulbs & fuses were fine and I had a broken brake switch. The fate of which I believe blame lies with the London traffic. I had killed my brake switch through flogging it mercilessly morning and night; it had expired admirably during service with not even a grumble.

kaput brake lights

I had tested this of course with a nifty trick of disconnecting the wires from the switch and briefly touching them together to complete the circuit therefore lighting up the back end of the car satisfactorily and giving little regard to whether the current had given me a new hairstyle.

any excuse

Do I look like I know what I'm doing?

On consultation with my pristine workshop manual I made my advance. After doing a canny impression of a contortionist, lying underneath the dashboard, legs skywards grappling with the old nylon plastic switch and nut – it does help if you find the right size spanner, and not try to get the thing to budge with your teeth - oh and ignore some of the instructions to slide where you obviously have to screw, I had the old kaput switch liberated. I popped the new metal switch back in connected her up and stamped my size 7 on the brake pedal. A vision of scarlet luminosity against my garage door heralded success and a craving suppressed.

Until next time…and there will be a next time.

Let there be light!