Small Things: Small Mind: An Amused Muppet and the Perils of Italian Car Ownership

I can happily report that this week marks the occasion of my owning an Alfa Romeo for an entire year. During this period I have not gotten fed up, frustrated nor bored with the cantankerous little Italian car, which given my previous vehicle history is pretty much a record, with most vehicles being very lucky to see out the end of a year or so (my VW is a special case as it has been in my possession since I was 15).

In the past I’ve always been itching to try something new, I’d lose interest in the regular day to day routine and lust after other vehicles. Upon first sight the Spider for me was like being with the object of an unrequited crush up close for the first time…and being able to touch.

I think I can credit Jeremy Clarkson with the quote that you’re never a true car enthusiast until you’ve owned an Alfa Romeo. This mainly bestows in the passion and tragedy brought about by owning such a beast. An Alfa is a Siren in car form and can shape your future automotive tastes against your will.

Jeremy was right.

From day one my Spider caused me heartbreak; an overheating problem that upon given too much effort she would refuse to proceed and sit seething on the roadside looking sultry. There were bizarre knocking noises from the engine bay; add to that refusal to start and a penchant for sliding her rear end on corners. All were tantamount to vast garage bills. But it didn't preclude my passion.

Two months of ownership under my belt and the future seemed rosy. I scoffed at my detractors who woefully sent me on my way to work each day expectant of the telephone call heralding my distress. But it never came. My Spider ferried me thrill-some mile after mile without not so much as a puncture. But there was further misfortune stirring.

A pre-Christmas drink in a Hammersmith pub and some late night shopping later I returned to my Spider with my spoils under cover of darkness. She was parked on a quiet garden square and it was a regular occurrence for me to leave her there; it felt safe and was relatively close to several friends’ abodes.

My festive cheer was shattered like a cheap bauble when I noticed a note on the windshield upon which the guilty party had professed regret and apologised for what they had done. My pretty proper Italian sports car was sullied and my fragile emotions in tatters. A careless driver had hit the driver's door leaving a deep dent and extensive paintwork damage. To my disgust the perpetrator had left falsified information which leads me to believe the sorry event was witnessed but the culprit was selfish and not forthcoming of their insurance details for fear of escalating bills.

I will always be first to readily admit I project far too much attachment to the inanimate objects known as my cars and this particular incident left me distraught. A loss of my (almost full entitlement) no claims discount and a £400 bill later and the Spider was looking pretty again. But alas the new door was ill fitting and several trips to the bodyshop and complaints to the insurance company later; I gave the Spider to my own specialist who put back the door correctly without so much as a penny from my pocket.

A couple of month’s back I was subjected to yet more horror as the MOT man said 'No'. The whole sorry event I recounted

here. I couldn't find the locking nut for my alloy wheels so had to pay for some ruffians to drill the bolts off, they couldn't and the rogue locking nut reappeared some weeks later in the most random part of my house. Would there be no end to my torture?

Then came the mystery of the disappearing brake lights. Not once but twice now I have had nil illumination upon my size 7s pirouetting on the middle pedal. The latest instance occurring just this week.

But I was ready for it. My seasoned Alfa ownership instincts kicked in, I neither fussed nor panicked and used my fog lights as a temporary solution to get me home. With no supervision I ran through the necessary checks and upon discovery it was yet again my brake switch I swung into action that would put Wonder Woman herself to shame. I whipped out the defective switch, stuck in the new one (again following some contortionist impressions as discussed at length

here) I replaced the under dash trim again feeling satisfied and accomplished. My rear end was lit up once more like a baboon in the mood for romance. I hopped into the driver's seat to go to Tesco for a celebratory grocery shop confident in the knowledge my fellow road users would be well aware of my intentions to cease travelling in a forward motion.

The bloody car wouldn't start.

Much expletives and gesticulation followed as I returned to the spaghetti like wires below my dashboard. There was a sole wire with a small metal loop hanging, lonely and looking mightily out of place. I guessed it must be my ancient immobiliser and searched for somewhere to stick it. Given the nature of my immobiliser requiring a completed circuit I calculated that there must be something metallic where this little wire and its attachment could live. I was right. Upon finding a home for the wire and re-tightening the screw which had come loose upon my initial under dash removal the immobiliser worked correctly and Tescos deli counter got my money that night.

It's all worth it though, for those roof off moments of blissfully balmy days, driving through wooded lanes sunlight dappling across my tousled blonde locks, coming home and fighting with the hairbrush. Scooting down crisp autumnal roads, the smell of bonfires, coal and peaty earth, cheeks flushed with the cold but head toasty in winter hat and superb heating. Or even just the commute to work. The mellifluous purr from my 105 twin cam engine never fails to bring cheer on my saddest of days it lifts me somewhat.

Of course I still have a distinct urge to try other things my high octane lust lingers just beneath the surface and needs little stimulation to rise; and occasionally I will indulge it with great fervour, my motorcycle is a prime example of this. I've even bought and sold cars in the time I've had the Spider, but I find I always return to my Milanese drop top with pride in my heart, doe eyed, utterly besotted and ever dutiful.

Until the next part falls off.

The object of my affection