Few and far between but memorable for that reason

First off is a Fiat Uno. Second hand. Bought in Brighton which meant I had to drive it back up to west London where I lived.

What a sweet little thing it was. A clean, G reg car bought for about £250 which I felt uniquely attractive in. Wasn’t I smart? Single parent with own car.

The tape deck worked and so did the sun roof. Couldn’t afford AA membership (or petrol or insurance usually) but always carried five litres of petrol, a bottle of engine oil and blanket in the boot.

All was fine on the M23. Then a banging noise started. It didn’t develop slowly and get worse. It started noisily and got unbearably bad. Literally sounded like a spanner in the works.

My half-litre bottle of oil went into the engine. It stopped the banging for about two miles.

I had to get towed part of the way. Cost me about £125. The mechanic told me it was the big end. All I could imagine was the principal part of the engine like a set of revolving doors turning with no lubrication. I don’t think that’s what a big end looks like really.

I was broke and unhappy after having it repaired.

Some years later my then boyfriend (now husband) thought he’d see whether I’d withstand camping. Scotland in August. Up the backbone of England, straight to Thurso where a ‘slight breeze’ was blowing. In my Fiat Uno I’d like to add.

He’d camped since he was an embryo I think. Having been a capable woman for years, I stood watching, feeling like a Bruce Forsyth ‘aide’ as this new man swish poles and push pegs into the waterlogged earth.

The sleeping bags had been the biggest issue. My new man had bought bags from a proper shop. They were arctic worthy; the man told us so. I wouldn’t need anything else in one of these.

I don’t know whether all men tell newbie camper girlfriends this but my new man said I should sleep with no clothes on: it would keep me warmer. Something to do with the science and technology of the bag and the way the human body works…So I did what I was told. I had the best sleeping bag to get into, didn’t I?

The thing was useless. There’s a cold you get when outdoors with nothing on in a sleeping bag that seems to steal your heat and leave it on the outside of the bag. A clammy, pervasive cold.

New man told me to put the hood up and draw the string tight.

We often can’t recall our feelings of cold/fear/danger. I do. I remember exactly my feeling of cold and betrayal in my colourful, puffy bag. A shopping faux pas. His.

A couple of weeks ago while sitting in some coffee shop somewhere, I commented on the Frank Sinatra track playing.

“This reminds me of the Lionel Richie tape I bought last week.”

Stay with me. It will make sense.

My car only plays tapes. I can only seem to find The Albion Band and Rachmaninov. This music doesn’t always fit the mood. Sometimes all I want is easy pop. Though The Albion Band fits this journey well. England. Chalky hills. Flocks of sheep…

So I grabbed five tapes for £1 in a charity shop. Including Lionel Richie. But though it was Lionel on the case, it was Frank Sinatra inside. (Does such a man exist??) …

Not that I dislike the old Mafioso wolf but when one expects the laid back sensitivity of an old Commodore, anything else is just disappointing. …

My most memorable error? Three bottles of Tressemé shampoo for £5 or something stupid. 750ml bottles. Two and a quarter litres of shampoo. For fine hair, dry hair and colour-treated hair (which I don’t have.) …

But when the choice was there, I felt part of the bargain was to try other variants. …

I think the shampoo has actually lost its active ingredients. It’s now just nice-smelling gelatinous fluid which froths. Sometimes. …

So what have I learned from this? That I won’t be bulk buying shampoo any more. And not much else. …

Leslie Caron puts it well in Lily: ‘We don’t learn; we just get older.’ …

Worse than my shopping mistakes are my life mistakes. Stupid boyfriends, job and money choices, things I can’t unsay and people I can’t bring back. …

But hey ho! My hair’s clean, I now own a Ford and I don’t camp. And I still don’t see a place for Frank Sinatra in my car

Readers who submit articles must agree to our terms of use. The content is the sole responsibility of the contributor and is unmoderated. But we will react if anything that breaks the rules comes to our attention. If you wish to complain about this article, contact us here