It wasn't only yesterday's unexpected burst of sunshine in the midst of our polar summer that has lifted my spirits.
On Tuesday, after a three-week break, I was back commuting in a classic. Admittedly one of those weeks was half-term and I was in the wilds of Devon on a family holiday stranded inside a cottage hypothetically discussing whether a drop of rain could actually fall hard enough to smash a window.
Even so, that three-week lay-off represented the longest time in living memory that I haven't driven a classic… and it depressed the hell out of me.
I know that I am hardly representative of all owners in the extent that I insist on using old cars, and that some happily go months driving nothing but moderns, but I can't go without my fix.
In fact my little sabbatical threw sharply into focus just how much these cars have got under my skin and just how dependent on them I have become.
Just like everyone else in the world I find work, life, family pressures, the economy, the performances of the England rugby team and such-like hard to cope with sometimes, but it has become clear that while others turn to booze or anti-depressants, my daily dose of classic driving is what staves off the need for such remedies.
Not by much, perhaps, but obviously enough that not driving a classic, even for as short a time as three weeks, throws me into a right old strop.
The ripple effect of my mood was, I am sure, felt at home and at work and I can only apologise to anyone affected by my cold turkey.
