Sunday drivers. History repeated.

Saturday morning was an early start, but in fairness the hours of the night before seemed to tick slower than a second hand drawal around the watchface. Like a beating rhythm of uncertainty, all fears fell when the 60 year old Wolseley lit up, matched only by my racing heart and Dad's eyes. If asked, I would have struggled to recite the sound before, but upon hearing the engine purr my childhood came back to life.

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