Cortina Mark III

I started a job in insurance three days after completing my final A
level and bought a bright orange Mark III Cortina to transport me to a
concrete office block in Potters Bar overlooking the railway
station.

I never quite knew whether I had bought the car to get to work or got a
job with no straightforward transport links to ensure that I had to buy
a car. I bought some fake fur seats from Halfords to add sophistication
but never managed to erase the stale jism stain which served as
incriminating evidence of one of the few sexual encounters that took
place within its metal confines.

It was a rusty heap but I loved it all the same. Like any lover, she
had quirks that you learned to tolerate in the hope of sustaining the
relationship. The gear stick had a charming habit of coming out of its
socket at vital moments, typically when negotiating a right hand turn
in rush hour traffic. The front passenger door changed with the seasons
- at least it was consistent opening with ease throughout the summer
and hibernating during winter.

I was happy though, I had become an adult through enhanced mobility. I
had no ambition apart from owning my own car and having enough money to
get slaughtered on a Friday night and Saturday night and Sunday
too.

My older brother taught me how to drink. I progressed from Blackcurrant
and Lemonade to Lager Shandy to Lager Top to Lager to Strong Lager to
bottled imported Lager before joining the bearded beer bellies of
CAMRA, the Campaign For Real Ale - real Bitter that made you shit for
England. My Dad said it was an acquired taste, one that he wisely never
fully embraced - he preferred Allbran to loosen the bowels.

We had no Alcopops back in the early eighties, Skol was king, Double
Diamond fading fast but still a contender in working men's clubs, ales
were still produced by local breweries rather than international
conglomerates with interests in leisure and corporate
hospitality.

What can I tell you about my first years in full-time employment -
nothing much of significance or interest I'm afraid.

Let me think.

Oh yes, we received luncheon vouchers in the insurance game, rather
boringly, we exchanged them for food - typically savoury pies or ham
sandwiches. However, a few miles across town in Streatham, 'Madam Cyn'
- Cynthia Payne, would have taken them as payment for a variety sexual
services too lewd not to be included in a family newspaper. Instead we
played table tennis every lunchtime in a spare room above the station
car park which smelled of old biscuits. I managed to lose with alarming
consistency and rightly became an object of derision. My only
consolation is hoping that my lunch time playmates are still working in
that grey concrete office block and processing insurance policies with
deadly dull precision.

I went onto better jobs and smarter, faster cars but you never forget
those first ones - be they vehicles, careers or lovers. They're always
defective in some quarter, but that's reassuring - as we all are in our
own sweet mixed-up way.