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Neville John William Day 7 March 1922 - 26 November 1990

Preface Dad and the Cranes
Neville Day The early years Dad and his duty to the Crown. Including the one on the can!
Dad's Dad's Army Dad’s driving lessons (and some)
Help from Neville’s Father John Day Dad and the Mercedes G Wagon
The Day I met Day Dad, four tonnes of concrete and the gravel tsunami
Dad and the Coronation Norfolk is flat (not!)
Neville Day’s admirable tutoring No pheasant in here Charles
Promotion to Chauffeur You can drive when you're eighty!
Dad and THE holiday Dad and the North Sea Gas pipeline
Dad’s pigs and the Onion Dance Dad's Butt pricking
Dad and me and the Farm Fire Dad’s idyllic office and the end of Neville Day Plant Hire Ltd
Fluffy dog meets Steam Engine (fluffy no more) Dad’s little known speech impediment
Helping with the pruning and tree felling Dad and the not a Volkswagen
Neville Day The early years and the final hour Dad’s wheelies
Dad and Fairstead Dad would have laughed!

Dad’s driving lessons (and some)

Being taught to drive by Dad on our little grey Fergie tractor, aged just eight, meant I needed no help tackling the 1937 Morris 8 I bought a few months later with my saved £3 apple picking money.

By the time I reached my 17th birthday, with the benefit of the smallholding experience, followed by the early years of Neville Day Plant Hire Ltd, meant there was little on two, four, six and eight wheels or dozer tracks that I hadn't driven. Even on one occasion a huge Euclid grader and which had two drivers, one at each end. Hence I passed my test on my 17th birthday, in my bright orange Mini pick-up.

There was no theory part to the driving test in those days, so I was not required to get my driving test examiner to complete one. I reckoned he would have failed though had he done so. His clutch control when I saw him arrive and park at King's Lynn's Test Centre wasn't all that hot either. Though I thought it best not to say so.

The little Mini was fine. Believe me though when I say there was not a lot of room in a Mini, let alone the two seat and minute cab pick-up version. Neither me, at 6' 4", nor my eighteen year old 5' 11" girlfriend thought so too. Even though she was learning to become a Physical Training instructor at the time (deep joy!).

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Singer Gazelle Series V, 1965.

So occasionally I would ask Dad if I could borrow his prized new Singer Gazelle. Mother having finally persuaded him to trade in the Ford Consul, because it was 'common'.

singer_car_keys.png To be fair to Mother and not wishing to portray her in a bad light, the old Consul was getting a little, shall we say, 'porous'? Rust holes making the car resemble a colander. However, for Dad, being frugal out of necessity, but certainly never mean, if she started then that was good enough for him.

Dad being Dad, unquestionably generous, to say nothing of remarkably trusting, generally agreed to letting me take his car out for the evening. Lobbing the keys at me across the kitchen table.

"Try not to get footprints on the headlining - again." He once said.

Mother just looked on, quizzically.

spacer_transparent.gifChris Latham-Smith 2022.

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