I'm not the kind of bloke who carries a grudge... but... Sigh. One year ago today I parked the Jaguar outside Tesco in Peterborough. As I was checking that the boot was locked, a woman opened the passenger door of a Renault Sport Clio V6 and whacked it against my door, creating a horrid little dent smack, bang in the middle of an otherwise perfect panel.
I contained my fury and pointed out the damage. To my horror she denied it, despite the fact that I watched her do it! I showed her how the door matched the dent but she remained unconvinced. I asked for her phone number and she reluctantly gave it so I was left with that, her first name and the car registration number (Sally, WK02 EOB).
Over the next few weeks she failed to return my calls. When I finally got to speak with her, she again denied denting the car, refused to provide details of her insurance and then hung up. I've given up now, of course. But I'm reminded of that hideous woman every time I get in the car. There's one dent in my car and she made it. Terrible that I'm still angry with her 12 months on, isn't it?
THIS IS the story of life with a classic car. I drive a 1972 Jaguar XJ6 and write about it here. I'm Martyn Moore, former editor of Classic Cars magazine. This is a two-year story about the roller coaster ride of classic car ownership. The most recent entries come from a classic car rally in 2005, the last journey I made in the car before putting it into storage. Use links on the right for earlier entries.
