SUFFERED a breakdown last week. It struck out of the blue, leaving me lying on the ground in utter despair and wondering how to carry on.
In the end, I needed professional help. Happily, it only took the AA 10 minutes to respond to my motoring emergency and roughly as long for their crack technician to sort out the problem.
This plucky knight of 'the 4th emergency service' leapt from his magic yellow van and quickly set about taming my suddenly disconnected gearbox linkage with a pair of needle-nose pliers, a tiny horseshoe clip and a hammer.
He even followed me home to ensure the problem stayed solved.
Thus, my first enforced pit-stop since becoming the proud owner of a classic car turned out to be much less disastrous than I'd feared in the heart-stopping moment when my gearstick suddenly went all floppy (honestly, it's never happened before).
I bought my 1977 Ford Capri - 'the car you always promised yourself', as the ads used to proclaim - last year, following a protracted period of devouring an entirely new selection of specialist magazines and internet sites by way of 'research'.
Having grown up as a car-mad child watching The Professionals screeching around in a pair of fast Fords, there was only ever going to be one logical choice of vehicle in which to properly enjoy my early-onset mid-life crisis.
Eventually, a suitable Dagenham dream machine presented itself and I made arrangements to have a look.
First impressions were good. The remarkably rust-free paintwork gleamed in the full glare of a baking hot summer's day, the engine roared to life on the first turn of the key and the interior was in remarkable condition.
One of the car's previous owners even happened by to sing its praises, half joking that he'd like to buy it back again.
Then I went for a drive.
It will be many years since most of you have had the pleasure of operating a car without power steering, ABS-assisted all-round disc brakes and an airbag hidden away under every potentially body-rupturing surface.
As someone used to driving a super safety-oriented Volvo, let me assure you that slipping behind the wheel of a 36-year-old vehicle after years of computer-aided mollycoddling is an sobering experience. Let's say you're busy appreciating the throaty engine note as relayed via the after-market sports exhaust, when suddenly you find yourself approaching a junction.
Needing the car to come to a moderately quick halt, your foot instinctively caresses the brake pedal as it would in your modern motor.
Nothing happens.
Luckily, there was no-one coming the other way that day and the car's interior was already brown.
Next, I got re-acquainted with the dubious, muscle-enhancing joys of the non-power assisted three-point turn.
About a minute and several multiples of three later, the car was pointed the right way and I had arms like Arnie.
They say you should never buy the first car you go to see. Although the price was right, these words were ringing in my ears even as I experienced my first nerve-wracking vehicular time-warp.
Thus, I ended up walking away empty handed. Naturally, after spotting the same Capri attracting a steady stream of admirers at the Causeway Coast Ford Fair in Portrush some weeks later, I realised I'd made a huge mistake.
A couple of months on from that, the car was up for sale again by its new owner -- a friendly guy called George, who took me out to an old barn in the middle of nowhere to see it.
The Capri still looked as good as ever, even in the fast-fading evening light.
Yet, as I examined its re-assuringly extensive folder of documentation, something troubling caught my eye on the insurance certificate: 'Occupation: Gravedigger'.
As my blood ran cold and something sounding suspiciously wolf-like began howling in the distance, I hurriedly got on with the traditional car-buying haggle.
Magic number agreed upon, George's thankfully still human hand was shaken and the keys handed over.
I high-tailed it out of there in a spray of rear-wheel driven gravel -- before cruising the rest of the way home at an uber cautious 25mph.
Stopping for petrol (the gauge isn't too reliable, sadly), a woman approached me at the pump to admire the car. "My dad used to have one of those," she said approvingly.
Truly, I had arrived.
Having quickly got to grips with the pleasure of driving 'a real car', I've had literally miles of smiles ever since and only the odd moment of curse word-riddled frustration.
The Capri always attracts loads of positive attention.
Even the MOT tester seemed thrilled to see it, though not as thrilled as I was when it passed with no advisories.
You just don't get the same reaction in a Volvo - nor can you fix one with a hammer and a pair of pliers when it misbehaves.
So, if you see us out and about, feel free to flash your lights by way of greeting.
And, should we happen to be at the side of the road with the hazards on at the time, do pull in and keep us company until the nice man from the AA arrives.