Well that's not too bad I suppose.

Service was £116, and whilst the R5 didn't get a completely clean bill of health, the financial damage to follow isn't going to require me to sell my arse down the docks to randy fishermen. (Assuming they'd want to access my arse in the first place, that is, it'd certainly be a new use for cod liver oil. (Does cod liver oil actually come from the livers of cod? Is it genuinely oily? If so, that's really yucky.))

STUFF THAT NEEDS DOING -

Front shock absorbers are shagged. (That would certainly explain the bone-jarring firmness of the ride.)

Rear brake discs are rusted and the pads are worn - need replacing pretty urgently.

Front fog lamps are full of water and appear to be playing host to a colony of newts. (I knew about this was already so it wasn't a shock.)

Inner nearside driveshaft boot needs replacing. (Otherwise the gearbox oil will eventually drain out and the gearbox will then seize up and explode, killing everyone within a five mile radius.)

And finally, the heater fan isn't working, (again, I knew about that already), but the guy said he'd been unable to easily get to either the motor or the rheostat, and he didn't want to start stripping out the dashboard unless he was sure I wanted that much time (i.e. labour costs) spending on it. (I'll get that done when it goes back in for the other stuff.)

The drive back to Ramsey was largely uneventful, except for when I tried to close the driver's side window when it started raining as I was sat at the lights at the top of Bray Hill, only to find that they'd completely opened the window at Q&S (something I've never done) and the electric motor (electric windows are the only vague nod in the direction of mod cons that this car has) didn't have the strength to lift the window back up.

So there I was, sat at the lights, with the posh woman sat in the big Lexus next to me finding it all rather amusing as I attempted to manually pull the window up with one hand, whilst having my other hand on the "UP" button. Fortunately my brutish, Hulkian strength allowed me to complete the task just before the lights turned to green, although it didn't really matter as I then spent ten minutes trying to get through the ENORMOUSLY ANNOYING temporary traffic lights just outside the entrance to the Willaston estate - as whoever set them up appeared to think that giving equal time on green to all three directions (cars going into Douglas - five. Cars coming out of Willaston - two. Cars trying to get out of Douglas - fifty billion) was a Very. Good. Idea.

In a final act of indignity, the car then steamed up horribly as I set out onto the mountain road in the pouring rain, so in order to see where I was going I had to stick my head of the window, until I'd been travelling at sufficient speed for long enough for the front windscreen to demist via the flow of air being pushed into the air vents.

It's all a bit rough and ready, but it feels far more like actually driving a car than anything I've been in for an awfully long time.

Tomorrow's mission is to start ringing around Renault specialists in the UK to track down the various required parts, Q&S would do it for me, but chances are it'll be quicker and cheaper if I source the parts myself, and then pay Q&S to fit them.

I bought myself a £3.33 bottle of rosé wine from the Co-Op to celebrate having bought a car that's not more than 50% likely to bankrupt the whole family. Unsurprisingly, it's fucking horrible. (But not that I won't drink it anyway, of course.)