The Yellow Beetle
Once you’ve sat, strapped in by an ageing seat belt in the days long before child safety seats, in the back seat of any vehicle powered by one of those classic air cooled engines, you never forget. Nor does anything else ever feel the same. Dad bought our ‘Herbie’ home in December 1973. He was three years old (Herbie, not Dad) and sat proudly in the front garden, radiant in seventies yellow. I was five, Caroline was three. She puked in the back on only the second time we travelled further than Nans house. I laughed, Mum sighed and Dad had a face like someone had told him Bobby Moore was leaving West Ham for Fulham. I know this because later when Booby Moore left West Ham for Fulham his face was exactly the same. I don’t remember Herbie ever going wrong. Dad went off to work in him every day. Mum still got the bus to the hospital because she couldn’t drive, we couldn’t afford two cars and the bus stop was at the end of our road. If Dad finished work early enough he’d pick me