TUESDAY - We’ve put 6000 miles under the wheels of our Ferrari FF since it came our way about three months ago. That must make it one of the most-used Fandangos in the country. I haven’t done all the miles myself, of course, but must be responsible for 4000ish.
It may sound weird, but it has taken me all this time to feel honestly at home with the car. It’s not that the FF is hard to drive – the reverse, in fact. The driving position is spacious and luxurious. Visibility is fine.
The monster power is tamed by a very capable gearbox, great grip and stability to burn. No, your ability to relax is impeded mostly by the fact that the arrival of this red Ferrari always seems to be an occasion for those seeing it for the first time. It’s never ordinary.
Funnily enough, my recent trip to Pendine Sands to watch the Blue Bird commemorative run at last created the right conditions. On that trip, I was alone with the car for three hours each way and, although not swift, it was one of my most absorbing drives of the year.
WEDNESDAY - A few days ago the Ford Transit had its 50th birthday. Eight million of them have been made over the half century, mostly white and mostly in the UK, and nowadays (because there are at least three different ‘flavours’ of Tranny) someone buys one every 180 seconds.
At times like these, people in the publicity engine room of Ford are inclined to produce ‘50 facts you never knew about the Transit’ lists. To this, I would like to add another: during the 1970s, for reasons that are hard to grasp, the Met Police let it be known that nearly all British bank robberies featured a sliding-door Tranny. Sales soared.
FRIDAY - More on the Defender, because I’ve been driving them all week. Truth is, I’ve never known a vehicle that so efficiently shows up the variability of my driving – which hitherto I’ve always thought was, if not good, then at least consistent.
But I’ve discovered this week that when I’m concentrating, a Defender (which needs precise handling to proceed smoothly) feels exhilaratingly mechanical and in touch with the magic of forward motion, quite different from the rubberised contraptions we normally drive. But when I’m pre-occupied or tired, it seems as rough as a cement mixer.
Those who drive them every day (of which there are many, even in London) will know what I’m talking about.