If you read my previous blog, you’ll know that I have just bought a 1965 Chevrolet Corvair in Montana, USA, and wished I hadn’t.

And now me and a mate have to get it to Newark, 2400 miles away on the east coast. Which would be fine if I actually wanted the object I am about to transport, but not if I don’t. Why have I gone luke-cold on this madcap project? Because the Corvair’s paint is as shiny as a sheet of sandpaper, its interior shines with the suspicion of hard use and it has the aura of a car that is going to be trouble.

The fault is entirely mine. I have been tempted by the a description claiming excellent condition for a 43 year old car – which is true, given that this one is pretty tidy when most have rotted away - and that it may only have covered 18,500 miles from new.

But equally, it’s very helpful owner Shelley says that she cannot guarantee the odometer, and points out various flaws with the car in her ebay description, including in its paint. I have, I realise, been too rash to believe that this is some coddled, near immaculate car because of the mileage and the fizzy promise of some pictures on the web. My mate and I quickly conclude that it must have done 118,500 miles, on the basis of some patchily worn carpet, the state of its paint and the dirty pedal rubbers.