I passed the driving test during my first autumn term at Durham University in 1976. Until then I'd ridden a little moped, but now I bought a car - an old blue mini. The mini had a difficult life - it was broken into several times, the tires were stolen, and one day in April '77, it broke down on the A1 between Durham and York in pelting rain. I was taking Anne home to Harrogate en route to Sheffield, when the engine spluttered out and we slid to a halt on the hard shoulder. Anne was practical, I was not. Eventually we were towed to a garage and the car was fixed. But now we couldn't pay. The mechanic had the weird idea that students should have credit cards. With no credit, no cash, and the garage refusing to take a cheque, it looked like we'd been staying the night in the garage, with the car impounded. Impotent in negotiation, I got angry at the refusal to accept my cheques and my arguments. Whether my assumption of sole responsibility to deal with the problem was sexism, vanity, or just because the car belonged to me I don't know. But once I'd got really annoyed with the mechanic, Anne remembered that she had a stash of cash in her luggage, and we used it to pay. That night I stayed at Anne's place, and, her father being a butcher, got an evening meal of the best steak I'd ever tasted. So all ended well, though my masculinity was deflated. The mini got me through the fog between Huddersfield and Sheffield on many a night in the late seventies, so redeemed itself before finally expiring.