I HAD ONE OF THOSE #1 Triumph Herald

 EIGHTEEN AND HORMONALLY STRICKEN

Eighteen, hormonal, virgin drivers license and, no money.

The last six years spent salivating, dreaming and pouring over every car magazine known to spotty youth, Ferraris, Porsches, Mercedes, MG’s and all things exotic.  Still no money.

Dad, that bloke who wouldn’t let me take the company car for a cobweb blowing spin on getting said license, did indeed save my teenage ego by offering to buy my first car.  One of my friends had a Humber Snipe and another had been given an almost new Holden Palais.  I suggested anything with a soft top of British origin would be acceptable.  Names like MG and Healy were subtly dropped in polite conversation whilst he who had the money was spruiking solid, dependable, staid, sedan, cheap bits and reliable.  It was an interesting dichotomous non-debate.

Then the moment of glory came.  Off we tootled down to a Mentone car yard.  Me in the passenger’s seat with elbow out the window trying to look cool and make up for the ignominy of actually being driven by my father when it was obvious to anyone, I was a driver!

Then, the moment. I was presented with an off-white British two door sport-ish Triumph Herald.  What happened to the Healy, the MG, the TVR,  I was beside myself with horror, joy, envy, gutted, excited and all feelings teenage.  But it was mine – let me repeat that – mine!

No more begging for the company car, no more being locked away with no wheels and no more shame.  I was eighteen plus one day.  I had suffered a whole day.

But, finally, in the mainstream of life with my very own car.  Being 18, a boy and suffering manifestly latent maturity I decided to remove the roof to create a convertible except it wasn’t really a convertible because there was no soft-top.  Therefore when it rained I had three choices – firstly use an umbrella [note to self - holding an umbrella over head whilst driving is a real bugger], secondly drive like crazy to get home to bolt the roof back on or hide out in a service station.  Several umbrellas later, accusations of loitering and traffic lights stopping the drive like crazy bit, all resulted in yet another soaking.  Not very alluring to the opposite gender me thought.

So to remedy the alluring conundrum, I needed a real convertible with an actual folding roof.

[1 of 27 vignettes trolled from a history of cars owned and driven]