The Fiat 126 was a very popular little car in Poland in the seventies. Aspirational for many people, it could be bought by paying instalments for several years in advance – you could only collect it after it was fully paid – and then you had to look after it. My husband’s mother joined the scheme as soon as it was available and eventually he acquired his „Maluch”. (Little one)

I didn’t know him then but when he arrived from Poland, that fateful summer of 78, he came in his little car. Unfortunately this mode of transport was not really designed for the hard labour my husband extracted from it and the thousand mile journey proved too much for it once they reached Germany.

But miracles happen and a new engine was bought and fitted ( don’t question me about the exact details – I know nothing about cars) and they eventually arrived safely in London.

My husband (not yet – not even husband to be at this point) was quite overwhelmed by his experiences and lost no time in talking about his exciting journey whenever he had the opportunity. And he frequently had the opportunity as I was staying in the same house when he arrived and we often had breakfast at the same time.

But much as I enjoyed talking to this young man the car itself did not interest me. Until I realised that my 25th birthday was coming up and I was having a big party. Then the idea came to me that he had a car. He could go shopping and bring all the heavy stuff.

Cheekily I asked him if he would. And he did. And he came to my party.

A month later we were married! Yes. I know.

A few weeks later he had to go back to Poland and sort out all the paperwork. We were determined to do everything legally, and knew he would have to pay back his studies.

He returned to England in April 1979. This time he came by boat. He wasn’t going to risk breaking down on the way.

We had our church wedding in May and began to live happily ever after. But Christmas was coming and somehow I was persuaded to go to Poland by ferry from Harwich to Hamburg.

I am terrified of water, don’t like boats, but was tempted by the apparently delicious food on Prinzferries. Ha. Gluttony is a sin and I soon got my comeuppance. The crossing was so rough I couldn’t eat. I wasn’t ill but I was terrified. 24 hours later we were on dry land. In Germany. In the cold.

What I haven’t told you was that before we set off the car had to be prepared for the journey. The engine apparently needed to be overhauled. December 79 was one of the coldest winters on record. My husband had a brainwave. He would do the work inside.

He took the engine out of the car and hauled it upstairs into our flat in 50 South Ealing Road and placed it triumphantly on the kitchen table. And proceeded to work on it most of the night. In the morning he reattached it to the car and we set off.

When we arrived in Hamburg it was colder than ever. We could not get the car warm. We stayed overnight in West Berlin. Then proceeded to drive to Warsaw. The little car began to show its age and feel very tired as we covered the kilometres. Not to mention the freezing temperatures inside.

As we approached Warsaw the little vehicle began to judder dangerously and I was beginning to lose hope that we would ever arrive. This was Christmas Eve and my in-laws were waiting. We had no way of letting them know where we were. How near or how far.

My husband was driving ever more carefully. I was praying ever more earnestly. And then, quite suddenly, we came to a halt in the road where my in-laws lived. Jacek parked the car. We unloaded our luggage and all the gifts. And never set foot in the car again. Soon it was covered in snow. When the thaw finally came a friend rescued it and sold it. The money paid off the university fees and everything was sorted.