Back where she belongs

Ian's had about eight cars in his life, but he still has the third one he ever bought: a battered 1971 Land Rover that he got 11 years ago in a muddy corner of Yorkshire for a piffling £250.

She goes up to 70mph if you're lucky, she drinks petrol like an alcoholic, you have to shout to have a conversation inside her, and she coughs. Her air-conditioning consists of two metal flaps in the front panel that open with cranky old levers. She doesn't get driven very much these days, but when we do go out in her it always feels like an intrepid expedition, and she commands a curious authority on the roads. Double-decker buses and London taxis stop to let her go first. No one ever cuts her up or steps off the pavement in front of her: they dive for cover. Whether Ian's driving in swanky Chelsea or gangland Brixton, Sloanes and street gangs alike nod appreciatively at what a cool car she is. She rocks.


We came home yesterday afternoon to find she'd been stolen.

Our jaws dropped. Poor Ian's face crumpled in horror. He rang the police, and then we sat and waited, with soft-focus montages flowing through our heads of all the good times we'd had with her in the last eleven years.

We had SO much spare change in the ashtray yesterday afternoon. We became the all-time king and queen of repetitive conversation.

"Who would nick my car?"
"I don't know. This is awful. I'm sorry this has happened to you."
"She's not good for anything except being my car."
"Why don't we go out and look for her?"
"No, there's no point. Why would anyone take her?"
"I don't know. Bored kids."
"She's only got sentimental value."
"And she's a bugger to drive."
"Yes."
"Sure you don't want to go out and look for her?"
"No, no point."

[Repeat ad infinitum.]

We stood and looked impotently through the front window, expecting to see her going past. After over an hour of acting like a dog waiting for its owner to come back, and about twenty repetitions of the conversation above, Ian relented. "Maybe we could go and look."

So we got in my car, Ian driving because of the size of my bump, and we headed for the dodgy neighbourhoods where evil pirates and ruffians live, seven-foot bandits with cutlasses who stride home with other people's cars slung over their shoulders and cook them on big campfires while laughing through gold teeth.

We cruised through a couple of estates, sitting up like meerkats, peering down every side-street, driving into dead ends to see what was hidden down there. We saw a couple of Land Rovers, but new ones, wrong ones, without character or coughs.

"This is making it worse," Ian sighed after twenty minutes. "Before we came out I thought there would be obvious places where people would dump a stolen car, but now I've realised how many hidden little nooks and crannies there are."

A couple of neighbourhoods and ten minutes later, we both spoke at once.

Ian: "Right, I've had enough. We're going home."
Me: "There! LOOK!"

There! At the far end of a little side-street! An old and very familiar Land Rover! We drove towards it without breathing. It was Ian's! with all her wheels still on! not burnt out! not stripped down! no glass broken! no sign of forced entry which means she was probably unlocked when they nicked her so DUH but! we found her alive!

The thieves had ripped out the ignition and hot-wired her, which is a pain, but that's all they'd done. Ian rang the police to say we'd done their job for them and they could go back to drinking tea and watching porn; then he hot-wired her and we drove home, where Ian parked her right in front of the house, put on her steering lock, opened the bonnet, got a spanner, took her battery out and carried it into the house.

"You still feeling a bit bum-raped?"
"A bit vulnerable."

He fired up eBay, searching for wheel clamps, immobilisers, fortresses, portcullises and land mines, occasionally getting up to look through the window.

"My car's still there!"
"Really? No one's driven her away without a battery?"
"No."
"Good stuff."

[Repeat until long after lights-out.]

I thought yesterday was the coolest thing we've done in ages: it made me feel all happy and woop-woop in a very Red Hand Gang sort of way. We got her back! Who needs the police when you have pesky meddling kids like us?

Ian's buttocks are still rather snugly clenched, but he'll be fine.