A car is born...sort of....

I’m bored of warbling on about work, today I shall inflict a car based ramble upon you. You lucky people.

I’m in a good mood toady, and it’s all due to my Zodiebeast. That’s the name I have given the hulk of metal sat on my drive because it’s i) a Zodiac and ii) a beast (nicknames have never been my strongpoint). I’ve managed to fine very VERY local company to do the main welding on it for next to nothing. And once that’s done I’ll be left to finish it. And therein lies the problem…

I love this car, lots. It’s my pride and joy, a cracking motor as far as I’m concerned. The thing is I’m in the midst of restoring it, and you don’t need to be a car buff to understand that parts for a 45-year-old car aren’t exactly flooding the shelves at Halfords. This means that a lot of the work is going to be carried out by my skilled hands (for skilled read: hands without a clue). Which should be, urm, interesting. I’m normally quite confident in my abilities, I’ve had lots of cars and I’ve done lots of work to them. The thing is I’ve never had to do any work to a car that I actually care about. I’m known in my hometown for driving cars that were hand painted. With Hammerite. From a tin. With a brush. I’ve never had a car that’s made folk go “ooooooh, that’s nice” as it rumbles past. I’m normally subjected to small children spontaneously bursting into fear induced crying, or an array of disgusted looks. I want this one to be different though, it’s a rare old beast so I’d be lynched if I did bugger it up. And my old man would probably stop talking to me.

So, I best get some practice in.

Sandpaper? Check. Filler? Check. Primer? Check. Tart’s BMW….