The glory of old stuff

I've never been content living in the here-and-now. As far back as I can remember I dreamed of a different era... lived vicariously through the old objects left behind by others long gone. I had relatives who fuelled the fascination with the bygone, dusty and musty. Uncle Mac, who took my brother and I on memorable rides on the bench seat of his lowline Ford Consul (long after the last one had left Dagenham), slipping from port to starboard as we rumbled around north London's bends; and my grandad Poppa Fleming whose garage smelled of polish and leather and housed the mid-sixties Wolseley that would, at 18, become my post-test wheels.

And now, the best days are spent tinkering with old stuff. Today was one of those rare, crisp, sunny winter days that actually makes you glad to be in England. I played rockabilly to the kids as I made their their lunch (it makes them jump around in their seats; no modern music does.) Then I enjoyed a rare hour picking on my '63 Gretsch and actually worked out the breaks in Hank Harral's 'DJ Blues'... something I've been meaning to do for years.

After that I exposed the Dodge panel to the sunlight and took it on a brisk 20-miler, refreshing the fuel tank, warming the engine and rolling the wheels to avoid lay-up flat spots.

Choose old stuff. It will always make you happy.