It’s not my first Moggy, I reminisced as it flew out of first. A grey four door with no MOT came first. Passengers were advised to put their feet up in wet weather. Back in the present, I pumped the brake and slowed down slowly, if you get me. Rediscovering over-steer, I wove between hedgerows, crunching gears like a pig with coal. The winning E-Bay bidder had begun havering, causing Lloyd, the owner, to offer me second chance. The body looked fine when I viewed it – mechanical faults I could manage when they arose (surely not this soon I wondered). But I hadn’t driven it then, as it was Lloyd’s mum who doubtfully gave me the keys – and I didn’t want to alarm her by driving off…
With a price agreed Lloyd took it to be MOT’d - and the garage discovered a dodgy brake cylinder. Lloyd dropped a spare off but it was wrong, so another was ordered. Then the plugs fouled; he’d told them it hated choke. Having updated us with numerous texts and calls, ignominy then struck as a hub cap disappeared into the gorse. Now we were getting edgy.
A few more miles and I was settling into it. ‘This is motoring’ I sighed as the indicator stalk end came away in my hand. I’d had two more Morris saloons before I emigrated. Now, as I rasp along country lanes, the chrome sparkles and the scent of leather seats stirs a satisfying emotion. Unlike a fiery sports car there is no hurry nor is there any techno anxiety. Just the satisfaction of kinetic grace. And I know for a fact that my other half already loves it.
From August 1978, an E. McQueen Rose had kept a log for ‘Moriarty’: it catalogues a history of care for a loved car – which is heading towards 100,000 now. Can’t say I like the name, it sounds like Morris Ash Tray.
At 91000 miles in May 1989 the log ends. Then in 1990, unusual addresses begin with a tax reminder for a Mr Hart of Fourpenny Cottage, Dungates. Mr F King then bought parts from ESM and Tracey King sorned the car in June 2004. In April, 2008 Lloyd, of Crumbly Cottage, acquired it from R Gray of Ongar, who noted that no guarantee was provided. A Recovery Notice from around then advises ‘not to drive’.
Since I last drove a Morris, things have changed. Yes they got limited respect, but now, people everywhere are drawn. Some speak with dewy eyes of past ownership. Others shout ‘that must be worth summat’ and kids point… Bozos accelerate just to get past – being overtaken by this old beauty irks their distemper. Youths in microcars shout ‘Hey – Coo-ool’ so I flip them a peace sign. You don’t just buy a Morris – you enter into a way of life. No more lap top analysis bills, just open the bonnet and fix it. Then try to stop grinning…[frame]
Moriarty is a detective in one of the Conan Doyle books 
