Throughout my childhood we had a succession of knackered old vehicles. My parents were

skint and could only afford second-hand bangers that were always breaking down. For a

while we had a VW camper-van. My brothers and I would sit in the back without seatbelts –

in the eighties seatbelts were only compulsory in the front – and whenever the van turned a

sharp corner we would be thrown to one side. Sometimes we stood up and danced to

whatever was playing on the tape-deck. Our favourite was a Fleetwood Mac tune that we

called ‘The Screaming Song,’ because the vocals were simply a series of high-pitched

screams.

One summer we attempted to drive to Cumbria but broke down on the M6 and had to

be towed back. The van was taken to a garage on the outskirts of Birmingham, several miles

from our home in Stourbridge. The day it was ready to pick up, my dad decided to hitchhike

there and took me along for the ride. I was eight and thrilled to be included in such a daring,

grown-up adventure. We stood with our thumbs out on the A458, while traffic whizzed past.

Eventually, a car stopped, a beautiful cream-coloured car with immaculate chrome trimmings

and, on the bonnet, a silver figurine with outstretched wings, like an angel.

‘Wow!’ said Dad, ‘A Rolls Royce!’

He got in the front and I climbed in the back. The driver was an ordinary-looking,

middle-aged man.

I’d never been in such a fancy car. The seats were upholstered in creamy, plump

leather and the doors and dashboard were panelled in walnut veneer. An air freshener shaped

like a Christmas tree hung from the rear-view mirror. To me, it smelt of money. The man

asked if I wanted some gum and offered a pack of Wrigley’s Doublemint; another grown-up

thrill. I chewed happily, enjoying the awed stares of passers-by, as the car purred through the

drab industrial landscape. The man explained in a low-key way how he’d made his fortune –

manufacturing something boring but useful out of metal; a typical Brummie rags-to-riches

tale.

‘Nice bloke,’ said Dad, once we’d been dropped off and the Rolls had glided away,

‘Expect he picked us up because of you. You made me seem respectable. Your first hitch and

we get picked up by a Rolls. Amazing!’

And, with that, we headed towards our beaten-up old van.