It was the late 1950s and I was 10. The lingering austerity of the war meant money was tight, and for ordinary people a car was a luxury. Our neighbour, though, had friends in the motor trade and Dad was soon the proud owner of a car. A promised shooting brake (estate car) turned out to be an ancient saloon with a bench seat bolted to the floor in the back. It seemed reliable so a campsite in Devon was booked and we set off just after midnight from Birmingham, with a tent, bedding and supplies for two weeks packed mainly behind and around me on the back seat. We had barely gone 10 miles and Dad was worried. Every now and then he'd lose the steering, only for it to return almost immediately. After weaving across to the other side of the road too many times, Dad stopped in a deserted but moonlit pub car park. He soon realised what the problem was. The rear wheels and tyres were bigger than those on the front! The cargo in the back had balanced the car so finely that any bump in the road would raise the front wheels off the ground only for it to settle again ready for the next bump. After much groaning and swearing, the front wheels were on the back and the rear wheels on the front. A little re-arrangement of the cargo and we were away. Our vehicular freedom had started.★