My parents were quite well to do. They had a neat garden and a nice drive so it was a surprise to me (later on in life) that they decided to park an old black rover car in the front garden and leave it there for years going rusty on public display. People walked past it everyday and Mrs King, the next door neighbour, had a few things to say about it. For us kids though, it became the best den in the world. A haven of fun for everyone allowed in. A haven of desire for everyone else. I got to choose. There was an aroma from the brown leather seats, crumbling, weathered and picked apart by small curious hands that is probably my favourite smell of all time. Rich, deep, complex and simple. Primal, cosy, oily, just right.

When people walked past our car we beeped the horn at them and hid below the window line. It was hilarious. An amazing steering wheel horn which eventually ran out of horn because we pushed it so many times. We grew up in that car. It knew all our games. All our secrets. It had secrets of its own too. In the boot…

We found a treasure trove of goodies when we opened it. One of those lovely silver twist handles with a smooth action. We could not believe our naughty luck. Inside lay hundreds of postcards. Not any old postcards though. Rude ones with boobs and bums on them. Seaside caricatures of ladies and men being cheeky with one another. They were great. We loved them so much we decided that everyone else needed to see them too. So we ran round the area throwing them into people’s gardens. Hundreds of them. I loved flinging them up high. They went further that way.