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Obviously, that didn't work, because it was built near Lake Como in northern Italy, a place famous for ice cream and ancient chapels dedicated to St Anthony, the patron saint of things that are lost. So, finally, after several hours of trying, I was forced onto the seat of my Triumph Speed Triple which, being new, started immediately.

But then Woman turned up and demanded to be taken to the airfield as well and, as she hates motorcycles, this meant turning my attention to the cars. The old Bentley is a nice way to travel on a sunny day of fun, but technically it's for sale as I've bought an old Rolls-Royce instead. And the fuel gauge is broken.

Meanwhile, the Royce isn't here yet, because it's away with a man who's re-laquering the cracked dashboard, after which it's in for some engine work.

The Porsche, then. It's my poshest car and a convertible to boot, and just the sort of thing in which a chap and his gal might arrive at an airfield. No, not the Porsche, because one of the windows has stuck in the open position, so it can't be parked anywhere. And so, some three hours after I stepped out of my front door, we set off in the Fiat Panda.

And it didn't end there. At the airfield, I uncovered my Luscombe 8 monoplane, an American-built machine of 1946 vintage.

In its time, it was a radical aeroplane, the first all-metal light aircraft, something that could live outdoors without fear of the wings rotting away or anything like that. It is in excellent condition and has been rigorously serviced for its entire life, as you would demand of an aircraft.

I spent the usual half-a-lifetime on my pre-flight checks, fuelled up, strapped in and ran through the start-up procedure. The 100hp air-cooled flat four roared into lustful life. I taxied to the end of the runway, did some more checks for full power, oil pressure and all the rest of it and then opened the throttle.

Halfway down the runway, I was rewarded with what I regard as a porthole to the sublime; a view of a perfect English heaven, seen through the screen of a classic aeroplane in the moment it lifts from the grass at the historic White Waltham airfield.

And then, at 800 feet, the engine cut out. Not permanently - it just faltered for a few seconds and then picked up again - but even so, I very nearly soiled myself. Five minutes later, I was back on the deck covering it up again.

The message here is really quite simple. All this old stuff is rubbish. None of it works properly. After almost a whole day of fart-arsing around with machinery, I was forced to conclude that the only dependable things in my life are an Italian car and a British motorcycle. No one would have bet on that.

And here's the advice. Buy one new car, any car, and use that for everything. Then you can devote the rest of your life to something useful.