The steering in the Commer allowed for delayed motor-neurone responses. You only thought you were steering, in reality she was doing all the work behind the scenes and all she asked in return was for her pinions to be greased (Mrs).
The late onset of spring has found me in a particularly wistful mood, and I am beginning to miss her far more than I thought I would. All kinds of funny little things remind me of her. The scent of wild honeysuckle rendolent of the many country byways we'd meanadered down on a warm summer's eve. The sprinkling of dried mouse sh*t I found in my garden shed are just like the one's in the sugar bowl in her pantry. I spent many happy hours sat in the back picking them out with a fag dangling from my bottom lip.
A fool, as they say, and his Commer are easily parted.
