Small problem, though, I mutter jovially at the end of the phone call, trying to make it seem like an inconsequential triviality: “It hasn’t moved under its own steam since 2017.”
I’m ready for them to revoke their invitation and suggest I stop posting misleading pictures of it looking lovely on social media, but instead they suggest that if I provide the parts, their expert technicians can have this iron-age hunk of junk back in tip-top condition in no time.
The parts list turns out to be considerably longer than I had imagined. There are the obvious things – fuel hoses, HT leads, oil and whatnot – but then come the big-ticket items. It turns out I need a new steering box, the driver’s side front shock is knackered, the pushrod seals are leaking and the anti-roll bar bushes might as well be made of chalk.
Then there’s a new battery (pricier than I remember) and the small matter of new tyres to consider – and because this is Volkswagen, these are proper period-spec Michelin Classics, which turn out to be the second-biggest automotive expense I’ve ever made, after the car itself.
When collecting it from the workshop, I confess to being slightly nervous about the drive back to west London, given the longest single journey I’d undertaken previously had been to Camber Sands in 2014 – and I shudder to remember a couple of marshals clearing a decent stretch of car park for us to bump-start it back into life before the return journey that day.
“I wouldn’t worry at all,” says the mechanic, beaming. “I’ve been driving it around for weeks with no problem.” Fair enough. A few years ago I would have fainted at the thought of someone else tearing around Milton Keynes in my pride and joy, but I take no small solace in the verification that it can still handle the toils of commuting.
