Apprenticed to an engineering firm in the austere 1950s British Midlands, there wasn't much in my daily routine to make life interesting. That was until "Slim" joined the company.
Slim got his name from the fact that he was over six feet tall, but weighed only nine stone.
Recently demobilised from the British Army where he'd operated as a driver/mechanic, Slim was married and the father of five children.
Slim's marital status didn't stop him pursuing his main interest, which was other women.
These he charmed with his amazing sense of humour. Serious limitations to Slim's extramural activities, were however, a shortage of money and the lack of personal transport.
As Slim put it: "A pushbike just doesn't cut it."

Possible salvation came with a chance for Slim to purchase a vehicle from another employee who was selling his 1937 Morris Eight convertible at a "giveaway" price.
The reason for the vehicle's low price was pressure on its owner by a girlfriend desperate for an engagement ring.
A test drive of the vehicle was arranged for lunchtime the following day and with Slim at the wheel, the car set off with its top down and the owner in the passenger seat.
"I've neglected the maintenance a bit, but she goes well, don't be afraid to put your foot down," Slim was informed.

All went well with the test drive until the end of a long stretch of road and a T junction was reached.
Having been trained to drive Army lorries, Slim was programmed to stop using a vehicle's handbrake.
This technique ensured that Army lorries travelling in convoy stopped equally distant from each other.
To Slim's horror the handbrake detached in his hand, and rather than stopping, the car crossed the main road and entered the open roller door of a paint warehouse.
There the car collided with a display of paint tins.
As the contents of a half-gallon tin of Dulux off-white emulsion emptied itself into his lap, Slim was asked: "Well what do you think, are you still interested in buying it?"