60,000 miles: Wet footwells & dodgy geezers selling very dodgy motors

60,000 miles and several days relentless rainfall has induced a soggy driver's s side foot well. Now long past warranty and with middling balance sheet, my fingers took a quick wander around the web in search of inspiration and dare I say, a Haynes manual. This is a fault common (but not exclusive) to the breed emanating from a myriad of possible sources. Casual conversation and forum topics implied leaves could be blocking the water drain-off, thus channeling water through the point of least resistance...A good purge here didn't betray anything obvious but engendered a more intimate understanding of the Ka's geography.

Enlisting the help of my long suffering mother, several buckets of water were poured continuously around the bulkhead while I turned contortionist and looked for moisture... faint traces around the brake and accelerator pedal assembly but nothing conclusive-the idea being to pinpoint the region so the offending area could be treated with mastic or substitute automotive sealant.

Two hours' diagnosis led me to the conclusion it ranks as an irritant as removed from serious fault- water entering through the dash and contaminating the electrics would be an entirely different(not to mention expensive) proposition. Spraying some of my home brewed corrosion inhibitor around the suspect areas seems to have formed temporary barrier while the search for a cost effective cure continues.

Elsewhere, the inclement conditions and layers of road grime aren't particularly kind to the bargain basement "lick and a promise" finish but regular Waxoyling of the chassis components and nourishing wash and wax formulas have kept the livery lovely and Joe rot firmly in the shadows. The close of January cold snap rendered central locking and boot closure mechanisms temporarily arthritic but liberal squirts of Teflon based water displacer provided easy remedy.

Having run a few cars and discovered the motor trade's darker side on the seamy streets of South London, I found myself looking over a suspiciously low mileage '97 plate Toyota with a friend. 55,000 and full service history eh, part exchange, one owner...first to see will buy (from this dealer doubtless posing as a private seller I thought). The car in question was a Carina GL that had winged its way down south via the auction houses. Tight lipped about his precise location, said trader met us at pub before leading to a remote farm house. After brief pleasantries, he left us the keys and the opportunity to cast a not-too critical eye.

Red is a notoriously tricky colour and this one clearly "had paint" at some point. The obligatory internal valet certainly looked clean but my suspicions were aroused upon opening the bonnet and inspecting the engine oil which clearly hadn't been changed in some time and contained creamy deposits, indicating possible head gasket woes.

Running off a few quick shots using my venerable Fuji compact, I was about to engage in more intimate perusal when the vendor emerged from an outbuilding with disconcerting haste. Unsettled by my approach, his patter became decidedly passive- aggressive and this presented the perfect opportunity for a test drive. Meena at the wheel we drove half a mile, discussing concerns and examining documents in greater detail. A distinct lack of servicing in three years coupled with some very obvious bodges elicited a general feeling of unease. We returned, smiled a lot, thanked him for his time before making good our escape, muttering something about viewing two Corolla that afternoon...

Great Escapes

Kushi has amassed a whopping 24,000 miles in just under twelve months with nominal complaint save for a grumbling ignition coil, suspension arm, bulb and other generic wear and tear. The past few weeks' inclement conditions characterised by snow, ice, sleet and slush and tons of corrosive grit has marked the return of Joe Rot. Rather akin to the pantomime villain, he was somewhat inevitable given I hadn't applied the Neptune green topcoats.

To effect repair now would be counter productive, allowing more destructive and costly corrosion to fester beneath the surface. Regular washings have cleansed the witches' brew while repeated applications of WD40 produce a greasy, protective film until spring permits more permanent repair. I'll take this opportunity to administer further Waxoyl therapy to the chassis components.

Christmas has always been a time of quiet reflection and pro activity- it's a nice relaxed time where psychologically I prepare for the coming year while meeting a few deadlines long ahead of schedule. By the same token, there's only so much drafting, typing and subsequent editing possible before creative fatigue gains the upper hand. In an effort to combat this and remain upbeat in outlook, I made the pilgrimage to Danbury Palace.

Back in the early 1980s it was a management college, of which my father was the director, giving us as children the run of the building and its considerable grounds. Many years later and it looks a shadow of its former self having been purchased and subsequently sold by developers looking to convert the historic and adjoining buildings into luxury leasehold properties. Nature quickly reclaims anything left unattended. The converted stable block and student accommodation beyond these trees are reputedly deteriorating fastest, although it seems heavily patrolled by security guards in response to traveller settlements and vandalism. Leaving only my footprints and taking only photographs is a difficult mantra for this profession to grasp, let alone appreciate. Discussing the finer points of law, specifically that pertaining to trespass (criminal damage is the charge that would be levied) with a profession not renown for its people skills seemed a hiding to nowhere. Spotting a fluorescent jacket, I voted with my steel toes and beat a hasty retreat. Further research rewarded with the developer's details so I will request less restricted access in due course.

MOT aka The Bothersome Lower Suspension Bush and Blown Bulb Blues

56,511

Last Monday heralded the dreaded MOT inspection. A moot point, a non-issue you might think seeing as servicing some six weeks previously raised nothing other than worn tyres, which were duly replaced . However, up on the inspection ramp revealed a blown nearside headlamp bulb and a perished suspension arm bush...

Lower arm bushes are a one of those relatively inexpensive but irksome KA weak-spots, manifest in sloppy steering and an unnerving creaking over uneven roads. Genuine Ford dealer pricing aside, your trusty local garage should be able to procure and fit for around the £90 mark. Arguably a component best replaced in pairs , the passenger side was sound so will remain unmolested for the time being. Ironically, Florence (Kushi's Endura engined predecessor) succumbed to the same problem back in November 2005, had the single-sided op without the other so much as murmuring right up until January's catastrophic camshaft failure. £138.01 lighter (including inspection) we are once again free to negotiate chaotic roads characterised by snow, ice and sub zero temperatures...

Towns Called Malice

55,357

Told you trade was relatively slow. Been chasing about to the seaside towns and more locally getting shots that might well define the social consequences of economic downturn but as yet there's no sense of public anger or unrest. Photographers studios lay bare along the high streets, a stream of unopened mail scattered around the floor the only footfall, others stand boarded shut while bohemian craft stalls seem sullen, if grateful for every solitary pound that changed hands.

"The empire strikes back" is my assessment of the social phenomenon detailed here. It has little to do with spending cuts in the interests of public solvency/ long term socio-economic prosperity and more in keeping with eroding the post war reforms to education, opportunity and health. Cooperative communities are in my view cohesive to meritocratic, upward social mobility and more egalitarian social frameworks. However, I'm pleased to report from a micro climate some small businesses are presently flourishing but this serves to illustrate how economically interlinked we all are. Remove money from the economy and reduced consumer spending, whether derived from earned income or benefits will see large sections collapse like the proverbial house of cards with costly social consequence. Increasing, rather than slashing benefits might not be ideologically sound for some but in the short term at least, would support a fragile economy and prevent those most likely to be reliant upon state assistance losing their employment. These people have cars, consumer durables and other items. Should they choose not to have their cars serviced, their hair cut or indeed that Friday night takeaway, our local economies shrink. "Gentrification" of inner city areas including Hackney, Waltham Forest amongst others during the mid 1980s under the premise that such sweeteners would bring the middle classes and by default,prosperity/investment had little positive impact upon the immediate, established communities. The affluent newcomers enjoyed relatively cheap housing, convenient commuting to city jobs/restaurants and other amenities while the skilled artisans and businesses retired or relocated. It is difficult to predict whether we will see social unrest of the sort last witnessed during this period or whether people will seek solace in cheap liquor and sit huddled in their homes akin to the passover."People getting angry" is an immortal line from the Specials' seminal track " Ghost Town" arguably defining the immediate era of post 1970s Britain. "Tell me why?"; Is another extremely poignant song penned and composed in response to a brutal racist attack that rendered Lynval Golding hospitalised after he left a South London nightclub accompanied by two white women. In recent weeks I have been threatened twice while driving through Leytonstone by a black man in his mid twenties driving a very distinctive Q plate VW based kit car. Is this deep seated racial prejudice, simple unprovoked, pick- a- fight thuggery or a case of mistaken identity on his part?

Racism is widely regarded as a singularly white, male phenomenon, most prevalent amongst those from the lower economic sub-strata when it is inherently more complex. For several decades, young men of black and Asian origin have been subjected to inequalities of legal representation and disproportionately harsh sentencing compared with white counterparts committing (or at least "guilty")of the same offences. Drawing parallels with third wave feminism's inability to successfully challenge and obliterate reductionist two-dimensional gender stereotypes, there is a disturbing hypocrisy amongst some who use colonialism and slavery as justification for their own deep seated prejudices.

He's just a stereotype, he drinks his age in pints, he has girls every night and he doesn't really exist... Ignorance, prejudice and hatred serve to profit those who gain advantage from dividing and fragmenting people. Equal opportunities hiaraches are developed by careerists who control thought and the use of language in terms that are positively Orwellian while failing to have any positive effect upon the day to day experiences of the surgeon who is systematically undermined/ humiliated in a professional capacity by her colleagues, or the hirsute young man stopped and searched in the street because he fits a very simplistic "terrorist" profile. Sat in a Polish cafe' one afternoon, one such bureaucrat blundered through the door demanding to see documentation.

I squirmed in my seat (nursing a large coffee and awaiting my meal) as he conducted himself in the most patronising manner imaginable with a woman whose command of English rivaled, if not exceeded his own. The moment of reckoning came when he asked to see "The licence for the stripper"... Her polite tolerance vanished, cake and coffee retracted, replaced with a stern retort. Needless to say, he left looking very sheepish and muttered something about returning in a couple of weeks.

One of my favourite myths is that of the "repressed" Indian woman but no-one notices as the strong, independent but deeply feminine figure slips from a sari into leathers and across town on a 750cc Suzuki leaving everyone else "ten paces behind".

"Uncle" Benny, director of Sowman plumbing & Heating LTD has busied himself with some renovation works to his MG Metro turbo. Faded wings are being resprayed, presenting the opportunity for some mild engine fettling/tidying. Next to go is the dubious dump valve. Installed by the previous owner, welding is workman like at best-although the jury's out as to whether it's sloppy TIG or just mediocre MIG. Benny's vision is to employ the services of a skilled machine shop and have them cut out the offending area, neatly welding a plate in its place.

54,100 Another service, bulb and two front tyres

Fifty four thousand, one hundred miles was as close to the ten thousand service interval as I wanted to get, particularly since the condition of drum and disc brakes needed establishing. Received wisdom and past experience suggests pad replacements every nineteen thousand miles, more in urban contexts or the discs will be tantamount to scrap. Interestingly, braking was given the all clear but the two front tyres were down to the legal limit and frankly, my trade seems to attract sufficient police introspection without giving them additional/just cause for reprimand. That aside it was simply routine plugs, filters oil and a replacement bulb. Total bill £255 including VAT.

Autumn has become progressively drier, albeit cooler but hasn't presented opportune moment for further chassis waxoyling. However, I took the precautionary measure of shooting some WD40 into locking mechanisms, touched up a few stone chips before treating the coachwork to a thorough hard paste polishing seeing as the Ka finish needs a little help and pigeons have been taking rather accurate, acidic aim at the panels. The driver's side mat is looking increasingly threadbare too so I'll replace that come the next available opportunity.

Work's been slow these past few weeks-allows me to concentrate on some other pressing matters. Cash flow has certainly taken a dive but in these straitened times, creative types have to get creative... Is this a crisis or the opportunity for greater collectivism? I'm not referring to the cynical rhetoric espoused by the political elite but a greater sense in which people form workers cooperatives and other, similarly empowering collaborations. The potential has never been greater but the question remains whether people will actively embrace this or will online activity remain deeply routed in rudimentary one dimensional pornography and consumerism...

Ending on a happier note, Florence has been seen driven locally- We'd had some adventures and very happy times together-maybe our paths will cross again.

Too Close For Comfort

By and large it's fair to say things have been pleasantly uneventful since my last entry-bimbling up and down the highways and byways with little more than regular fuel stops, cleaning and routine preventative maintenance.

There have been a few notable exceptions. One Sunday toward the close of June en route to joining the M25 at Reigate we were stopped and questioned by the police, allegedly for driving too carefully. There proceeded a reasonably good humoured exchange concerning the accuracy of Kushi's speedometer which appears to be calibrated three mph faster (i.e. we're doing 27mph when it's registering 30). This isn't uncommon and the only vehicles with precise calibration are police patrol cars-for obvious reasons. There was nothing particularly invasive, or menacing in either the apprehending officer's demeanor or delivery but I engaged him in the minimum of conversation, if only to eliminate the possibility of talking myself into trouble.

In my experience as a photographer, the most likely reason for being stopped and questioned is under the guise of "anti terror/public order" legislation (Oft referred to as sections 43/44). Section 44 is now widely regarded as unlawful and largely replaced by section 43 which theoretically means a police officer cannot simply stop and search or confiscate equipment but must be able to demonstrate "Reasonable" suspicion of criminal intent. While trying to retain a sense of objectivity, in practice should a police officer decide to detain you, they will tailor circumstances to suit.

Father's day and 47,590 miles brought with it some deeply unsettling electro-mechanical failure some eighty-odd miles from home on the M25. This manifest itself in an erratic misfire, marked loss of power, interspersed with juddering and angrily flickering engine light eerily reminiscent of Florence's camshaft demise that fateful New Year's afternoon. Throttle steady, we eased along at sixty, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst, imagining every scenario from a temperamental idle speed control valve, alternator while banishing the C word that strikes fear into my soul, not to mention wallet.

Limping back to the village and into Palmer's yard, I hurriedly composed a note with the keys, sealed them in an envelope and posted them through the office door. Monday meandered sans reassuring, or ruinous phone call. Having prolonged the inevitable long enough at 3pm I roused sufficient courage and dialed the garage. John Carter answered and put my mind at rest-no doom, simply an expired ignition coil-a fault seemingly common to the breed and easily remedied with a test and replacement component to the tune of £105.

The little Duratec has otherwise been impeccably behaved, requiring only the lightest drizzle of oil. Stoical through recent heat and slow crawls along the M25, M6 and M1 motorways, we've passed a precession of stricken, overheating Fiesta and pretty much every other marque, their unfortunate owners gazing despondently into expiring engines, clouds of steam belching beneath opened bonnets. Soaring temperatures (by British standards at least), breakdowns, congestion and air conditioning seem synonymous with summer. Air conditioning is one of those occasionally useful luxuries very welcome these past few weeks but falls under my list of additional expense/more complication. Kushi's engine bay suggests this mod con came factory fitted but further delving confirms otherwise.

Better investment would be in terms of braking. The common or garden small front wheel drive car configuration of vented front discs and drum works well enough but they've always been a little soft. The first rainfall in several weeks turned otherwise well-surfaced roads into skidpans.

Easing into a sharp bend, we were confronted by an oncoming double decker bus. Simultaneous braking and gentle steering helped but a rogue patch of diesel saw us careering toward this traffic bollard. We stopped with millimetres to spare. Had I been travelling any faster than 25mph the story could've been very, very different.

Received wisdom suggests replacing the pads every eighteen thousand miles or exceed this and go the whole disc and pads route. Another couple of thousand on the clock and we'll pop into Palmer's for fresh pads...Prevention's always better than cure....

Down to Bath and up to Brum…Stopping at the Brothel? (!)

The middle of April saw us heading along the M4 in the early hours of the morning on a business trip to the ancient and arguably very beautiful city of Bath. Unfortunately, heavy road works coincided with my entry to the M25, extending the journey by two hours and nearly rupturing my bladder into the bargain. Fuel economy averages around 360-380 miles to a full tank dependant upon accidents, detour and delay but is pretty impressive nonetheless, although I’m not quite so endeared to the ever escalating fuel prices. Five years ago filling the tank from hero to zero cost £25 now it hovers around £40.
Fossil fuels are undoubtedly a finite resource but the greed of oil companies and their shareholders irks me somewhat. Bath is a city in the West Country and a very beautiful one busy but without the frenetic feel of say London and Birmingham. The purpose of this visit was business-an editorial meeting followed by some after hours’ fun and a very steady drive back the following afternoon. On so many levels it was good to escape, meet with much respected contributors and to let one’s metaphorical hair down- I was mildly amused to discover another publishing house had been spending considerable quantities on Maserati and cocaine!
Back with a bump, I found myself in the surreal position of photographing men frequenting a brothel from an external staircase of a solicitor’s in the not so salubrious seaside town of Southend. In keeping with many old resorts, there are some very affluent areas but an increasing migration of people displaced from various parts of the country sees many of the once grandiose hotels and guest houses converted into flats, bed-sits etc housing individuals and families often unwanted by the London boroughs. By the same token, I’ll confess to a love of decay-at least from a photographic standpoint. Salt air’s not good for coachwork and our old friends Joe and Joanna rot had been busily breeding around Kushi’s sills again. The warmer weather and lighter evenings have presented opportunity for further purging- sanded back to bare metal, followed by several coats of rust-busting primer and finally, light applications of Neptune green top-coats as time and climate allow. A few days later and once again Kushi and I were headed 165 miles up to Birmingham to see Melody Gardot, get a few shots of some abandoned buildings and even a quick saunter around Spark hill and a butcher’s at the Bull-ring and of course the bubble wrap building exterior it’s sections notoriously removed by drunken revellers wanting a souvenir. Melody, (including her comparatively dignified wardrobe malfunction) certainly captured my imagination as she wowed, teased and engaged the audience in equal measure with a warm, if ever-so- slightly brash New York charm. Birmingham has a notoriously complex road network so I left Kushi in the outskirts, making a trip to the city centre and staying in a concept hotel-not this abandoned car park opposite (although those close to me will doubtless understand its significance and moreover appeal). 44, 800 miles chimed time for servicing. Received wisdom suggests 10,000 (or once yearly) but by this point, the engine oil will have literally lost any protective qualities. Ironically, entering the garage yard, one that drew fascination and enchantment as a young boy, I spotted Florence sitting quietly in the exact same spot as I left it on that fateful January morning. It had obviously moved at some point and I’m reasoning cannibalised for spares. Nonetheless, seeing it again conjured some very fond memories and strong sentiments but then, this speaks volumes about my psyche. Sure I can make very prudent, dare I say; rational business decisions but I am not a businessman as cut from the traditional cloth. So to its successor’s servicing. This was a very straightforward plugs, filters, fluids affair with a lick of grease, tweaked handbrake cable and replacement driver’s side wiper blade £138 including VAT. (Thanks go to the good folk at Palmers for their skill and moreover, constructive approach to repairs and servicing). There have been some very surreal moments in amongst our mile munching meanders too. Drawing up at the lane leading to my son’s primary school, I hadn’t so much as engaged the handbrake when two of the middle class mothers of moral majority began tittering amongst themselves-in truth they shot a look more commonly associated with the 1978 remake of “Invasion of the Body snatchers” with Messer’s Nimoy, Sutherland et al.

The reason for this mirth being my door magnet promoting “Stenning Photographic” which had been somewhat twisted in translation (talk about lost consonants) to “Stenning Pornographic”. The two women continued this hysteria to the point where I had neither the inclination, nor patience to correct or otherwise engage them in any dialog. Clearly (he says tongue firmly tongue in cheek) they had succumbed to Riche’s construct of neurosis- yes, the psychologist from the Freudian school of thought who asserted neurosis derived from the absence of orgasm.

This location also gave rise to chance encounter with a busty Polish Au pair and her 98 plate Ka- also finished in Neptune green but with the elderly and ominously tappety Endura unit. Seeing me emerge from Kushi, the young woman approached and asked if I thought her engine needed attention. "Tappets" I replied with a smile, explaining these were prone to misalignment on the Endura, requiring about forty minutes skilled garage labour every five thousand miles or so. Hers didn't sound as if someone had thrown the proverbial bag of bolts in but a little too vocal nonetheless. If 77,000 miles were genuine and services regular, this shouldn't present too many nasty surprises....