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It
was on one of those rare sunny afternoons in between showers of
rain that I decided to have a break from the kitchen and grab a
cup of coffee and enjoy the warming rays of the sun just outside
the back door of the restaurant. My thoughts of tranquility were
soon to be broken, as I knew that in a few moments I would have
the pleasure of the commis chefs company. This information was
being relayed to me by a strange whirring noise that was fast
approaching the restaurant, slowly the sound was getting closer.
Then as it turned into the car park the noise came to a stop. Yes
Dan the commis chef had arrived, and so also had the unforgettable
sound of a little bright red Peugeot 309 with a slipping fan belt.
On seeing that the car park contained only one other car, and that
belonged to me and for a reason that only commis chefs that drive
red Peugeots understand; Dan then decided to show me and the cat
from next door, who seemed quite amused by it all, a demonstration
of his latest driving skills. This was to be a pre-planned and
detailed maneuver, so concentration would be required. It meant
that he would have to extract full power from the Peugeot as he
propelled it around the car park. All this combined with the
sounds of a badly slipping fan belt, and the smell of burning
rubber, made the next door cat escape to the safety of a garden
two houses away. After the smoke and dust had settled down I was
surprise to see that his car was parked so close to mine in fact I
don’t think that you could have got a blue Ritz paper between
the two cars. The look on Dan’s face as he surveyed the gap
between the two cars was one of amazement and sheer relief.
“Sorry I think my foot slipped.” Was his only comment. As a
punishment to the commis chef I set about recalling all the forms
of transport that I have, and in some cases unfortunately,
acquired over the many years of driving. I suppose it all started
in the early 1960’s with a collection of two-wheeled power. A
little red Norman Nippy was my first new bike, well hardly what
one would call a motorbike, with a 50cc engine the size of a
sewing machine; then came the BSA C12 and for the first time I was
being propelled along at a speed of almost fifty mile per
hour. The purchase of a dainty little Italian racing bike, painted
in a deep blue with a white racing faring, was next. It was the
bees’ knees but it didn’t last long due to a very sharp corner
that only became apparent to me at the last moment. I walked away,
but sad to say the little Italian job did not. It left me with no
transport so I had to hitch hike around for the next few months.
They
always say leave the best till last, and my best bike was a
Matchless 500 strapped to a Watsonian sidecar. She was a beast of
bike and I must say she was all British. It was the bike that I
had when I was courting Mrs R. It was in the days when although
you were driving on L plates you were allowed to carry passengers
in the sidecar. So it was decided that the Mrs R. to be, and my
sister would like a trip to the seaside at Cromer. All went well
until the return trip, as we came down this steep hill heading
towards a little village green. Once again a sharp corner caught
me out, it seemed as if the sidecar wanted to go one way and I on
the bike was intent on going the other. Three old boys that sat
outside the village pub drinking, moved like bats out of hell as
the best of British engineering at the time, in a cloud of dust
and smoke, powered passed them, missing the front of the pub by
inches. My sister on arriving home had a few words to say and
vowed she would never set foot in my sidecar again.
After
getting married I sold the Matchless 500 and decided to move up a
wheel or two if you count the steering wheel. We moved into the
world of the three wheeler, mini bond, Isetta, and ones that
looked like wedges of cheese, and what a collection of these
contraptions did I own. Each one truly had a mind of its own. We
had three Isettas and once again the law was either an ass or making
a ass out of some one. Oh yes, you could drive a three wheeler on a
provisional license as long as you did not have a reverse gear. Ok
but what about the guy that parks his Isetta in his garage too
close to the back wall? Hard luck old chap, you could not open the
door that was at the front and of course you could not reverse
back because the law said no reverse gear, damn good law that was.
As
time progressed we moved up to the last three wheeled motor that
took pride of place outside the front gate. It was a Dell Boy
special only painted red. A Reliant Robin, the body work was never
going to rust as it was made from fibre glass, but this
construction has, as I can see it, one big draw back and there was a
golden rule not to get to close to any cars that contained
smokers. The problem was if they flicked the fag out of the window
and it landed on your bonnet, well I don’t have to tell you what
happens when you set fibreglass alight do I?
Winter time when it snowed and froze always presented
problems for the hardened three wheeled driver as you had to drive
with the front wheel in the rut of frozen snow left by normal
cars, and after a few miles of that, I believe even James Bond
would have given up in and probably asked for a
very large Martini, of course, shaken not stirred.
After
the three wheelers I bought my first car that had a wheel at each
corner, a smart new NSU, and it was in this car that on a straight
road I now at last had enough power under the bonnet to, for
the first time, pass my dear old dad in his ageing Humber.
He
wasn’t amused. The day came when we sold the NSU so we could put
a deposit down on a house, and being left with just a few quid I
set out to obtain a new set of wheels. Returning home with a
large two coloured Vauxhall FB built around the same time as the
ark. When I say two colours the car's main colour was blue but it
had many specks of another colour called rust. From that day on,
it seemed that I changed my car every few months, there were Minis,
Ford Escorts, Triumph Heralds, GT6, Lotus, Vauxhalls, BMW, Morris
Minors, Rovers, to name a few. Each came and went, but each car
holds memories, like the time four of us drove to the lake
district in a Mini non-stop. But I also remember the very happy
days and outings my sister and I had, when we were youngsters, in my
fathers old Humber; slowly driving along country lanes towards the
place that we always stopped for a picnic. Salmon paste
sandwiches, or egg and cress were always enjoyed, packets of
Smiths crisps that you hoped would contain a little blue bag of
salt and it was all washed down with a bottle of Throwers fizzy
pop. Then a real treat as you helped yourself to one of
mother's homemade fruit scones that would often be filled with
strawberry jam. It's sad but I suppose that after all these years
the old Humber that was getting on in years when father bought it,
has long gone to the great scrap yard in the sky, taking with it
happy memories of the people that owned her….maybe Dan the
commis chef will be able in years to come remember the happy days
of his little red Peugeot 309?
Fruit
Scones
Pop
the oven on to 200C/ 400F or gas 6 grab a good size mixing bowl
and into it sift together 8oz self raising flour, half a tsp of
baking powder and half tsp of bicarbonate of soda, add 2ozs of
caster sugar. Give this dry mix a stir and then drop in one and a
half ounces of softened butter, next with your fingertips rub the
mixture until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Add a handful of
sultanas then add 150 ml of milk. You may need just a tad more milk
and by coaxing the mixture together to form a light dough, you
should finish up with a slightly wet but firm dough. Using a
rolling pin roll on a floured surface. Roll out the dough until its
just under one inch thick, use a pastry cutter to cut out six to
eight scones. Next place the scones on a baking tray and carefully
brush only the top of the scone with a little beaten egg and place
in pre-heated oven for 10 to 15 minutes. Bake these scones on a
Friday, that’s the day when you can buy a jar of real strawberry
jam from the ladies WI market. Homemade fruit scones, a good
splodge of whipped cream and handmade strawberry jam it doesn’t
get any better.
Colin Rushmore
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