I learnt to drive in a 1958 Morris 1000 traveller, it even had orange stick out arm turn signals, no fancy front and back flashing indicators, it did have a radio and a heater though, but that was it
I learned in a Morris too. It wasn't posh like yours though, not least because it wasn't a slinky half-timbered Avant. Ours (my Dad's) was a saloon. No radio. And it wasn't a stunning metallic turquoise either. It was the colour of a muddy puddle.
I'll never forget it. And once I'd passed my test, I got to drive it all by myself. Inspired me to words, it did:
Clutch in, two three... crash the gears, two three... clutch out, two three...
I remember the nervous excitement that came with settling into the dark red seat. I remember the fabulous smell of damp carpet, rusty sills, and British craftsmanship.
I remember twisting the key in the ignition with shaking fingers and a dry mouth.
No matter how many times I did it, each time was like fretful fingers’ first frantic fumbling with a bra fastener warmed by smooth adolescent skin beneath a crisp white blouse. Each time, too, my heart was in my mouth, and my gut churned with that same feeling of intense excitement mixed with a primeval and almost uncontrollable urgency.
I remember how the mighty engine coughed, expectorated, and burst into life, whooping great draughts of petrol and air into its carburettor, all the while trying to twist itself out of the chassis as it strained to be unleashed.
There was nothing quite like the sensation of all that raw power.
I was pushed back into the seat by a giant, irresistible hand. The engine roared and the countryside went backwards at an incredible rate as the car pummelled towards the horizon in an intoxicating surge of acceleration. The speedometer needle fairly raced around the dial – not that I had much time to check. The universe went into overdrive, and it was all I could do to hold onto the writhing steering wheel as the front of the car went light.
Vicars’ wives on bicycles with baskets full of chutney dived for the hedgerows as we shot past. Rooks spilled from tall treetops, cawing in alarm, and corpulent woodpigeons clattered from the wheat fields like bursts of wild applause.
My eyes narrowed in fierce concentration as the first bend appeared. I sawed at the wheel like Nuvolari around the Nordschleife as the cross-plies howled their shrieking protest beneath me, and the differential tried to tie itself in knots. I wrestled huge armfuls of opposite lock while peering out through a fly-encrusted windscreen from between the steering wheel rim and the scuttle as the slipstream of our passage flattened the cow-parsley on the verges. The G-forces were so strong that the little yellow plastic ashtray that was stuck to the quarterlight with a rubber sucker came off and flew across the car.
I struggled to keep the engine bellowing lustily in its narrow, fierce power band as the exquisitely engineered orchestra of components ahead of me combined to produce a symphony that reverberated from the window of the Post Office as we flew past. I left-foot braked and heel-and-toed until the air was thick with the smell of tortured Ferodos. As we neared the bus shelter, our velocity was incredible. The whole world was a blur. The drums glowed as I furiously scrubbed off speed. There was a thunderous backfire*, and I could see in the mirror as the unburnt fuel, ignited in brief flashes of flame from the half-inch diameter exhaust pipe, set light to Mr Timpson's chrysanthemums.
At the top of the lane I squealed to a halt, undid the racing harness and hit the kill switch.
As the car cooled, pinging and ticking quietly to itself, I got out. Slowly, everything returned to normal. Mrs Cadwallader's cat went back to licking its testicles. Sparrows chirped enthusiastically in the hawthorn, and a collared dove in the laburnum cooed gently in appreciation.
I lifted the oil-spattered goggles onto my brow, and, drawing deeply on a Woodbine that I rapped briefly on the back of my still-quivering hand and lit by touching its tip to the still-glowing brakes, I exhaled a triumphant plume of smoke.
I leaned on the sinuous curves of the aerodynamic monocoque, and ran my hand over the firm swell of the warm bonnet. My fingers lingered in the intimate curves, and the car’s smooth loins trembled gently under my touch. The heady aroma of multigrade, mixed with hot rubber and clutch lining hung around us.
For all the world we could have been beside the Mulsanne Straight, Eau Rouge or Knicker Brook.
I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my back as I imagined us hurtling along the endless sands of Pendine in search of yet another land speed record, man and machine as one.
And all the while, sophisticated and pencil-skirted ladies in headscarves and sunglasses forgot their envious beaus and cheered, waving their pretty handkerchiefs and blowing extravagant kisses.
*You'll have to excuse my ignorance, but is this a DSG fart? Is it the same thing?
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With the black mirrors and alloys I'd get the roof wrapped black as well
WHY?" moment: Driving home from work, going down the motorway and it's belting down with rain, spray everywhere and no cars in front or at the side of me....bing bing bing the alert starts going off!!! I look down only to see on the dash "Limited visibility" wtf I know it is as I'm looking out of the window at it! Why do I need the car to tell me that? 
Another One, a little icon comes up to tell me to take my foot off the accelerator because there is a roundabout ahead! Yeah I can see that!!!
