Kadjar goo goo

A Renault Kadjar (Weaponry is an optional extra)

A while ago, one of those letters dropped through my letterbox that really helps to instil a sense of trust between you and your car manufacturer.

In this instance the letter was from Renault, maker of my humble Twingo. The missive was a safety recall. Apparently, the bonnet and rear wing (if you’re thinking Formula 1 technology, you’re sorely mistaken) had potentially not been bonded correctly.

Right – that’s probably not good is it? And they may fall apart whilst you’re driving, putting yourself and other road users at risk. Seriously not good, then.

So a few weeks later, during which nothing detached itself in a dangerous fashion from my car, I rolled up at the garage to have my tiny chariot glued back together. Properly. Not with a Pritt Stick or whatever they used first time around.

On presenting myself to the service receptionist, she cheerfully told me my courtesy car was just outside - “The black one”. I could see a small tank... maybe it was behind that. It turned out that the quasi-military vehicle was in fact a Kadjar, and it was to be my temporary motor.

Yikes. “Have you ever driven an automatic before?” Asked the cheery receptionist. No. Well, not for at least 20 years, and last time I nearly broke my nose on the windscreen when I pushed the brake hard thinking it was the clutch.

“Just push the brake pedal down to start it”. The ‘key’ was a flat rectangular thing. I got in the car OK, but the rectangle wasn’t a key – it was some kind of black magic. No key. No keyhole (and I did check). But the dashboard lit up when I got in. Sorcery! I located a start/stop button and, after eventually remembering to press the brake pedal, got the tank started.

Eventually figuring out how to put it in drive, and effect a three point turn without killing anyone or knocking down a building, I set off. In something that, to me, might as well have been a bus.

Surveying what appeared to be the highly illuminated bridge of the Starship Enterprise, I was informed when the speed limit changed, what the temperature was, where I was and possibly how to cook the perfect Christmas dinner – I was too busy clinging tightly to the steering wheel to check.

I rolled into my little village like the vanguard of an invading army, convinced that everyone was looking at me like I’d stolen it. If this all sounds like I’ve just dropped out of the 1970s, then spare a thought for me and my luddite/small car sensibilities – I’ve never owned a big, or complicated, car.

Returning later to collect my glued-firmly mini-motor, the friendly receptionist asked me how I’d got on, and then thanked me for taking the mammoth motor with it’s lack of a clutch. Apparently “You were the third person I’d asked – no-one else would take it”.

Seems I’m not the only one with an aversion to chunky cars with a pedal deficiency.

This post first appeared as my "Thank gumpy it's Friday" column, in The Mail, on the 24th of November 2017. The print edition gained a "My" at the front, and it doesn't appear to have made it onto their website this week. The column included a picture of a Kadjar at the bottom, with the caption "Chunky: Renault Kadjar".

There wasn't enough space to include the other interesting feature of my courtesy wagon - it seemed to rev to an alarmingly high level before changing up, and I wasn't pushing the accelerator hard either - I was too scared for that. Happily, having read a chunk of the owner's manual I found in the glovebox whilst shaking violently and having a cuppa, I found you could make it change up yourself by nudging the gear selector forward. Doing this, and letting it sort out the changing down, made my journey back sound less like an F1 race had taken a wrong turning into South Cumbria.

(CD A-Z: Retrospectacle - The Supertramp Anthology. Far out...)