Some of you may have read my blog about a spur of the moment decision to buy a Fiat 500 back at the end of June. If not, then here’s a brief précis: I spotted a 500 sitting at work and I offered some money for it. The offer was accepted. I bought it. Simples (as one of those annoying Meerkat things says).
As it turned out, it had covered just half a dozen miles in four years, but with a jump-start both cylinders turned over and the engine fired up. As soon as insurance was sorted I took it to the MoT centre, figuring that rather than guess, a list of fail points would be a more accurate starting place.
“Your Fiat is ready. Passed – no advisories. Lovely car”, came the tester’s voice.
I was shocked, but ecstatic of course. After rescuing it from its hiding place, I had washed, polished and vacuumed the car (essential MoT preparation). With it looking shiny, I had begun to fall in love with it. The fact that it had breezed through the MoT only cemented my affections for the car. Or so I thought.
Then came the momentous day: I was to take it home to meet the family. Like introducing your first girlfriend to your parents, I was nervous of the reaction it would get. However I was more nervous about the prospect of driving it home – covering 50-odd miles and two motorways.
