Author: Charlotte Vowden
Images: Charlotte Vowden
’Twas not the night before Christmas, but a night in late-November that I found myself dashing through the snow in the company of a kindly bearded man. I in a faux fur coat and he in a velvet jacket and bow tie, we, (that’s my husband and me), were en route from a black tie soiree in central London to southeast Scotland in my recently acquired Mazda MX-5.
With my eyes wide and my hands firmly on the wheel, I ploughed on with the determination of Mr Claus on Christmas Eve as the swirling blizzard blanketed the road ahead. Not a white out, but a fierce flurry that made it tricky to see beyond the light provided by the vehicle’s low beams, my nerves tingled as the dainty rear-wheel drive MX-5’s tail twitched on the ice. The traction control system did its very best to help.
Not the ideal choice of sleigh for sledging, (but hoorah for the heated seats), I was thrilled to be doing something memorable with it nonetheless. A car that I had coveted for some time, I’d been too impatient to find out if Father Christmas would gift me a set of keys in exchange for a nip of whisky and a mince pie. So, I did the modern thing and searched for one online.
With help from the elves at Auto Trader, I whittled my options down to a tidy looking Mk3 that lived nearby. My husband, James, made an enquiry on my behalf, but the seller had accepted an offer a few hours before. C’est la vie, it wasn’t meant to be… or so I thought. The next day, with his elbows deep in a sink of washing up, James received a call. The sale of the Mazda upon which I’d had my eye had fallen through. The dirty dishes would have to wait.
Twenty-five minutes later, I experienced love at first sight. Sitting inches above the asphalt, with a soft-top to drop when I want the wind in my hair, the zesty 2.0 litre roadster had the assets of an all-seasons convertible that would compliment my classic MGA. Plonking myself, inelegantly, down into the low-slung driver’s seat, my imagination carried me away, but as the daughter of a mechanic I’ve been tutored to maintain a (mostly) rational brain. I reined my emotions in.
Don’t be blinded by the superficial; dad’s counsel rang out in my ears. The paintwork might be pristine but it might run like a sack of spanners, and pay attention to what really matters. Ask questions! How has it been used and why is it being sold? Is there any paperwork to back up what you’ve been told?
From the underside to the engine bay, I searched the MX-5 from top to toe for rust. Helpfully, the seller provided a service history which included MOT certificates and receipts, and a test lap around the block raised no cause for concern. Doing my best to avoid investing in a heartbreaker that would become a malfunctioning bottomless pit, I really did do my due diligence, but as my first dalliance with deal making by way of a private sale, I lacked the confidence to conduct a face-to-face negotiation on the pavement outside the seller’s house. I drafted in my husband to help.
The delicate art of haggling usually begins with a straight-up request for money off, and James, who works in sales, had no qualms in ticking off this first step. He went low, unrealistically so, and the seller countered with a chuckle before they began a mannerly to-and-fro. Settling a number on a handshake, they agreed a twenty-four hour period to cool off.
A leopard print trouser wearing woman, the seller was reluctant to say goodbye to her MX-5. It had been a reliable and fun A to B but she was in need a beefier daily drive. The Mazda’s name, she said, was Millie; that’s when I knew she was meant for me. If I become the mother of a daughter, I’m going to call her Millie in tribute to a Ford Fiesta I once owned. The idea was a suggestion made by my late Gramps. Millie, he said, is such a pretty name.
Spending a chunk of my savings on something I wanted, but don’t need, was one of the most frivolous things I’ve ever done, but at 36, life has taught me that hampering every yolo impulse leads to I-wish-I-did-that regrets. I felt an instant affinity with the MX-5 on our first solo drive. Blasting distorted noughties power ballads through its unrefined, frankly terrible, stereo, I felt absolutely fab. Millie might not be perfect, but she’s mine. So, if you’re reading this Father Christmas, I’ll settle for a stocking of knick-knacks, car snacks and a new sound system for the MX-5.
How did you feel when you finally got the keys to a car you’ve coveted for a long time? Tell me all about it by emailing hdc@hagerty.co.uk.