I don't pretend to know about cars, but...

It's the day after Boxing Day.

We are visiting my parents in Somerset for the second of our two family Christmases, and Husband has persuaded me that it's a good idea for the two of us to drive down to Honiton and take a look at some antique shops. He has sneakily persuaded my parents to babysit before mentioning this to me, knowing that my dislike of shopping (unless, of course, it involves jewellery or designer labels) extends to dragging up and down Honiton High Street peering through grimy windows assessing whether the levels of twee inside them are outweighed by the potential for buying yet more furniture to take home with us. (Yes, we have been down this road - literally - before). Husband is smart. If he hadn't covered off his bases by sorting childcare first I would have had a cast-iron excuse not to go, but as it is, there is no escape.

Before we leave, he gives our extremely non-cool, non-South Kensington car a wash and a thorough clean. This clean includes washing down the sills on the inside of the bonnet. Out in the garden with the Boys, kicking the ball around and pretending that I am god's gift to soccer (I'm not - but you probably guessed that already), I look up to see him apparantly pouring a bucket of water inside the engine of the car.

Are you supposed to be doing that?

Yes, it's fine. I know what I'm doing. (subtext: I - Man. You - Woman. Do not question me on matters of Car)

But what if you get the sparkplugs wet? Or - something...

Don't be silly. Car engines get wet all the time. (Subtext: You do say the silliest things)

But isn't that why they have bonnets? To stop that happening?

My comment is disregarded as too stupid to countenance, and we leave. 40 minutes into our journey, it starts to absolutely tip down. Just after this, the car starts to shake and shudder. Just a bit. After 5 minutes of resolutely ignoring it and hoping it will go away, we start to acknowledge the problem. He checks I have paid our AA membership. I suggest that maybe we should turn round. This is not an option, apparantly, due to the fact we are only 10 miles from Honiton so we might as well go and take a look - it will just be a few minutes.

Half an hour later, we arrive. Apparantly the A-whatever is not dual carriageway all the way. Who would have thought it?

The car has continued to lurch periodically. We get our priorities straight, and have lunch (at The Boston Tea Party, if you're ever in Honiton. I can recommend their tuna melts...) before looking in a few antique shops.

Husband enters each with a spring in his step and a positive attitude, open to possibilities for chinese side-boards and yet more mahogony occassional tables. I am determined not to allow yet more clutter into our home if I can help it. We clearly have very different viewpoints, so we settle our differences by purchasing a couple of foot-high wooden birds which we can put on top of the chests of drawers in our bedroom. Once we move all the crap off the top of them, that is. Husband is happy to have made a purchase (role reversal 'r' us), and frankly I'm just relieved to have got away without taking home anything that requires floor-space.

The car judders back to my parents, and we discuss stopping at a local garage to get it checked out, but decide that on balance we would much rather wait until it gives out on the journey home to London with the Boys in the back. We are adrenaline junkies of the first order.

1 week on, back in London, space still hasn't been cleared on the drawers for the birds, and I have yet to take the car into our local garage to get it checked out. This is because there have been no more problems. Yesterday, following various hospital trips and an hour drive up to North London to visit yet more family, we decide that actually it seems OK.

Perhaps it was that the spark plugs got wet.

How could that have happened, I wonder?

I say nothing else. I don't have to...