THOM WESTCOTT

Rov in g Repor ter

“As one friend recently observed: ‘You take neglect to a whole new level.’”

IHAVE been awaiting this day for over a decade. My 1977 Lightweight is finally tax-exempt. For much of my 13 odd years with the Lightweight, the date of tax-exempt vehicles was stuck at 1974, but the DVLA finally deigned to notice that vehicles of nearly 40 years old were getting so few and far between they deserved a break, and by last year they had dropped it to 1976.

A very pleasant and helpful woman at the DVLA had advised me last year to phone in April to check if they’d dropped it another year, but of course I forgot. When I finally remembered to check online this week, I saw the happy announcement that any vehicle manufactured before 1978 is now tax-exempt.

Unfortunately, going tax-free is not as simple as just stopping the direct debits. You have to apply for the DVLA to consider the case of your individual vehicle and this appears to involve an annoying assortment of paperwork to plough through, which includes Tim, my overworked mechanic, having to rustle up a copy of the Lightweight’s MOT certificate from the depths of his extraordinary office.

Already counting my chickens before the eggs have hatched, I know exactly where I’m going to be spending that extra 200-odd quid a year, and that’s on a little light cosmetic surgery. For years, as the bodywork of the Lightweight has steadily deteriorated, each spring I have grandly declared to myself that I will repaint it in the summer. But each summer has passed by with me working abroad or money being funnelled into MOT failures or unexpected mechanical difficulties. A couple of years ago, I went a step further than total procrastination and bought a few small tins of rust-killing products and matt black paint but these are still sitting unopened in the back.

As one friend recently observed: “You take neglect to a whole new level.” I tartly replied with the phrase: “Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen” which was surely never intended for historic vehicles. And, despite my neglect, the Lightweight continues to loyally start, after being parked up for one, two or even three months at a time.

And even I have to admit that the bodywork situation is heading for critical. The paintwork is destroyed, mainly by the elements. Paint bubbles up over blooms of rust and large areas of the doors have mottled their way back to raw aluminium. Everywhere I look, inside and out, I see decay. Everywhere I look, I am starting to see a much-loved vehicle teetering on the brink of becoming the dreaded project vehicle.

All this is running through my head when I park up in the world’s smallest industrial estate. Drifting between various tool shops looking for an orange-coloured extension cable that can be nailed to a wall, I notice a very small garage in one corner, outside of which someone is working on the bodywork of a shiny modern car. I walk over and strike up conversation with Graeme – a thin fellow of indeterminate, vaguely senior years with a weatherbeaten face and a roll-up glued between his lips. “Bring her over and let’s have a look,” he says.

Graeme walks around the Lightweight skimming his hands over its uneven surfaces, pausing at rusty patches. I feel ashamed and try to talk firmly about the detrimental affect of seawater in the air before admitting that I am also a neglectful owner. It all seems entirely irrelevant to him.

“Could you deal with that?” I ask nervously as he touches a raised, bubbling section of rust beside the front grill. “Oh yes,” he says confidently, gesturing it away as merely part of a day’s work. I realise that what would take me weeks of inadequate attempts to only slightly improve would probably take just him a few hours to rectify beautifully. “It’s a lovely old vehicle,” he says warmly, kindly adding that it’s in pretty decent condition, although everything I‘m looking at right now tells an entirely different story. “So it’s not the worst?” I ask timidly. “Oh no, I’ve had vehicles half this one’s age in a much worse state,” he says.

He asks what colour would I want, would it be just the outside or would I also want the inside done. I open the door to reveal the embarrassing peeling, flaking, rusting interior. “I’d like to know the price for outside and inside,” I say softly, trying not to sound poor.

“It’s a nice vehicle and I’d be happy to do it,” he says. “It’d take a fair while but I can do it for a grand, and that’s a very good price.” It certainly sounds like it, considering my mum recently paid someone £600 to sort out a couple of panels of her little Yaris.

We step back from the Lightweight and observe it. “Could you do the wheels as well?” I ask, gesturing towards the rust-scuffed white wheels. “They’re a pain, and would cost extra,” he says. “I’ll do the whole thing for £1100.” It’s actually more than the Lightweight originally cost but it’s a sum I’ve repeatedly parted with over the years, for assorted mechanical difficulties.

In my heart, I’m already sold but I tell him I have to think about it and check my current finances. After a few days, I’m back. “I’d love you to do the Lightweight but I have to wait to be paid for a few jobs,” I say, conscious that the old journalist refrain ‘cheque’s in the post’ is still alive and well. “Just give us a call a couple of weeks beforehand and I’ll book her in,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Thom Westcott is a British freelance journalist who has written for the Times and Guardian, and now mostly spends her time reporting from Libya.