When Horrie had finally bought his first car, it was the pride and joy of us all—a 1929 Whippet that he spent more time underneath in torrents of swearing than behind the wheel of—although that was true of all his future cars as well. Thereafter weekends often resulted in expeditions, us in the Whippet and Uncle Kevin and Auntie Ruby in their Ford, bumping and day-long expeditions to Ballarat or the Dandenongs.
    
In 1955 was produced a wonderfully quaint film called Genevieve, about a vintage car race. The eccentric Poms, Kenneth More as the rival and the glorious Kay Kendall and the cars themselves, running from Dover to Westminster—it was all divine. And it was also a near perfect portrait of what those Whippet and Ford adventures were like. Sitting at the side of the road while repairs got done, mostly. Except, of course, they weren’t allowed to swear in movies they way Horrie did when the spanner slipped and he rapped him knuckles or the valve finally shifting giving him a face-ful of oil. Of course these mishaps were entirely the fault of who-ever was handing him the tools under there, and it was with great satisfaction that he didn’t abuse Uncle Kevin on the road any less than he did me at home.
        I loved the car, went anywhere in it, even though we would need to stop every few miles to allow me to painfully vomit up the effects of being overwhelmed by the exhaust fumes. It was worth it.