Just to prove that the Women and Wheels cameraman has a tough job after all. Our full Peugeot 5008 First Drive Story coming later this week…

See also our Focus RS first drive feature here

Ford are very proud of the Focus RS as a stunningly effective driver’s car, with good reason if the reviews are anything to go by (see our First Drive story here). Anything that gets Steve Sutcliffe from Autocar so animated must be pretty special. But Ford are also proud of the fact that they’ve been able to bring this car to the market at all, let alone with a £25,000 price tag, which is where our factory tour came in.

As if we needed any more reasons to be weary of our old chum The Credit Crunch, producing cars that enhance a brand’s image but don’t actually make any money is something manufacturers can no longer indulge in. Ford had to make sure that this new RS could be produced on the same line, at the same time and in the same factory as every other Focus. They couldn’t take cars off the line for ~any reason, or slow the line down to add extra components. Previous incarnations of the RS had to be whisked off to specialist suppliers for the “fast bits” to be fitted, which made the car expensive and slow to make. ~It was also a process that allowed quality issues to creep in because the process couldn’t be as accurately managed.

I was lucky enough to be asked by Ford to fly to Saarlouis in Germany with Richard Bremner for an article published in Autocar magazine. While doing the stills photography I also made the short video you can see above with the hope of showing what goes on behind the scenes in an ultra-modern car factory. It’s an awe-inspiring experience because of the sheer scale of the operation, although I’m always impressed by how calm and measured everything seems, despite that fact that 1,600 cars a day come out of this building!

Of course we missed the last flight back from Luxemboug and had to hire a rental car to hurtle back to the UK in time for work the next day, but that’s a story for another time…

There are tried and tested ways to launch a new car. Take a load of journalists to a hot and sunny place, put them up in the best hotel in town and offer them an endless supply of food and drink seems to be the established route, but hardly the most imaginative perhaps? After all, you can just see the world-weary hacks being unable to remember one launch from the next, blurring people-carriers in Cannes with supercars in Sardinia.

So you have to hand it to Chevrolet trying something a bit different with their soon-to-be-launched Spark. It’s a cheeky-looking car, sure enough, and along with the equally new but much larger Cruze marks a new face of Chevrolet in the UK; still good-value, but now good-looking as well. And there’s clearly something in the water that Chevrolet’s European team drink…

The setting was Berlin Fashion Week and the stage was the Chevrolet Young Creative awards night. I walked in to the venue brimming with confidence, video camera to hand but within minutes felt extremely old and dull as everyone seemed to be either nineteen years old, or nineteen years old and wearing clothes so cutting-edge it almost hurt. I tell a lie actually: there were older people there, but they all looked like George Clooney so that didn’t help. A very bleak prospect for your correspondent.

Such petty thoughts were soon put aside though as I started to look at the entries, the quality of which was astounding. And then you realise that the whole shebang is sponsored by a global car company and not a fashion house. Chevrolet will of course garner publicity and credibility from the project, but they’ve also given some young kids the chance to make a name for themselves and collect perhaps the first of many trophies for the mantlepiece. It’s an enlightened strategy.

So what about our Spark then, in all its diminutive glory? Chevrolet decided to hand one over to Mischa Woeste of the Smeilinener label and it’s probably fair to say that what same back would have raised a few eyebrows at the monthly Chevrolet marketing meeting. Even the Spark’s designer, who was on hand for the evening, looked a trifle stunned, but then he started laughing. At least I think it was laughter.

So when you see your first Spark on the road, you might just smile too as thoughts of sequins and Dulux flash before your eyes…

This piece written by Paul Harmer (Content Director for Women and Wheels) as Kate was away on half-term and couldn’t make the trip to Berlin!

However, I now feel totally immersed in the biking culture and have come away fluent! Actually that’s rather an exaggeration, but I do feel as if my understanding and knowledge has taken a leap on the learning curve.

I spent a long but amazing day at Bedford Autodrome where we were treated to a day of motorbikes. Mostly men, and mostly decked out in their biking gear.

I had feared that I would be bored to tears. But within minutes I was swept along in the enthusiastic holiday atmosphere and made my way to the novice area, where I was reliably informed I would learn to ride a bike. Just like that.

By the end of the morning, having sample a couple of 125’s, a scooter and a 500cc monster, I ended the morning going round the mini circuit on a Harley Davidson! I could barely breathe from the sheer excitement of it. I even managed to change gears but sadly, just as with my car driving, my clutch control was rubbish.

I just find it so amazing that within a 90 minute period I could go from complete novice (never having ridden a motorcycle before), to driving round a small track and even weaving between cones on a Harley with some amount of control.

Now I understand why more and more women are taking to the open road on motorbikes, be it for recreation or commuting. And not only that, but the atmosphere of the day spoke volumes to me about the great community feel there is amongst bikers.

The first words my husband spoke to me as I entered the house was, ‘you’re not having one’. We shall see…

I’ve managed to go for my entire driving career without ever having been in an Alfa Romeo – but not for lack of trying.

When the new MiTo appeared on my doorstep, I was suddenly reminded of a time when, working as a newly qualified staff nurse, hating every moment of it, I was dazzled by a certain doctor, who, if I passed in the street today, wouldn’t get a second glance…

I like to think it was the Alfa Romeo that dazzled me and not his stethoscope. But I was young and impressionable! So, like it or not, Alfa Romeos have always meant unobtainable men.It was therefore very pleasing to be able to climb into this lovely machine and no man around to make me giggle pathetically.

My heart was racing though, and while I knew it’d be fast, I didn’t appreciate just how much fun I had at my fingertips. I was almost relieved to give it back at the end of the week – at least the risk of getting into trouble with the law was over. So I found myself back in my husband’s runaround – previously my father’s pride and joy – a Vauxhall Corsa of a certain age. I tried to convince myself that I could have just as much fun with its stiff gears, uncomfortable seats and top speed of 70 mph with the wind behind it.

I was pleased with the way it coped with all the speed bumps, scoring better than the otherwise lovely MiTo with its very firm, sporty ride. I zoomed up the hill towards the gym, approached the lights that can either make or break me getting to my class on time and zipped through them rather neatly just as they were turning from amber to red. I had a nanosecond of smugness before I heard the wail of police sirens and a police van, lights flashing, screeched to a halt behind me!

I almost lost control of my bodily functions as I sat ramrod straight thinking “what the hell do I do now?” Having lived in the States, I was told to always keep very still, hands on the wheel should I ever be pulled over (which I never was, I hasten to add). The sheer relief as they strode out of their van to attend to a previously unnoticed car was amazing. MiTo paranoia perhaps? After collecting myself and ensuring that I was back in control of my body I arrived at my gym class, on time, but still shaking.

I will never, ever try and beat the lights again, whatever car I’m driving!

The day had started badly.

I lay in bed on the Sunday before Christmas and casually checked my diary only to see “job – Dunsfold” written in red. You’ve never seen me move so fast. As it turned out, I had enough time to get from London to Surrey. But it was unsettling that the pre-Christmas wind-down had gripped me so firmly that I’d completely forgotten about the commission. Either that or it’s old age.

There were five generations of a very important family (important to me at least, being one of my clients) expecting to see me, so I was immensely relieved to be on the road. The weather was beautiful; clear blue skies and sub-zero temperatures. There was a sharp frost in London which gave way to snow covered fields.

The previous couple of days had been carnage on the roads due to the weather, but today it was clear. Nearly there. I came off the A3 into Godalming, only to hear a modest little rattle from the engine, which I could also feel through the steering wheel. I turned down the radio for a better listen. I could only hear it between 1,500 and 2,000 rpm so I confidently concluded that part of the exhaust had come loose. I knew there were some bits rattling around in the catalytic converter anyway, and assumed it had finally given up the ghost. Nothing that would stop me in my last three miles anyway.

Then a lovely French lady started talking to me. It’s a French car after all. “Warning, oil level low” she explained. That had happened before I remembered. Diesels can burn a bit of oil, and I hadn’t checked for a while. Then she piped up again: “warning, oil pressure low, stop immediately”. Mmm. This was altogether more serious, and the picture quickly snapped into focus. I was loosing oil.

The noise had been the first clue, the oil level warning the second and the pressure warning the third. My only consolation was that my French lady friend had taken her time explaining all this. I figured if the oil had come out in one explosive discharge she would have been nagging me earlie

Fully aware that engines don’t last long without oil (minutes normally) but also aware that I just had to get to my job, I coasted as far as I could. I was prepared to sacrifice the car, but in fact just managed to get to the venue in one piece. So there I was, in the middle of the Surrey countryside at the end of a completely frozen single-track road on the busiest breakdown weekend of the year.

I called the AA with trepidation. The last time I called the AA my car had exploded. They sent a man in a van to have a look first (three hours) and the Relay truck which I knew I needed all along took a further two hours. Exasperating to say the least. So I explained patiently to the surprisingly calm lady on the phone at AA Central Reservations that I had no oil and the car wouldn’t run and we were all doomed. She assured me there would be someone with me within three hours and to stay near my phone. I expected the worse. But no. Less than two hours after my call I received a text telling me the Relay truck was five minutes away. I still didn’t believe it, but sure enough, like the cavalry arriving in the nick of time, Geoff arrived with his brand new yellow Renault flatbe

It took five minutes to load the Laguna and off we went. “It’s tricky when there’s ice like this”, Geoff said as he gingerly navigated through the lethal, un-gritted lanes, “once she starts sliding she tends to keep on going”. Righty-o then. I kept quiet, thinking that Geoff might not appreciate interruptions. M25? Empty. North Circular? Empty. We dropped my unlubricated Laguna at the Garage and Geoff then dropped me back to my door with a smile. He was genuinely reluctant to take a few quid from me, although I insisted. It was Christmas after all, and he’d just restored my faith in pretty much everything. Especially the rescue services – it all just worked, and the whole system must have been under some stress that weekend.

Never again will I complain about the cost of membership, which now looks like the best Christmas present you could have.

How I wish for a simple, yet stylish, utilitarian vehicle that I could actually use myself without the need for some strong arms. The Skoda Roomster instantly popped into my head. I no longer dream of fast, stylish cars that only seat two, but at least with the Roomster I would have some style, and I could single-handedly put the seats in whatever position I wanted.

It’s a great little tool.However, I digress… I had aquired a rather fantastic old chair that was in need of a complete make-over. So off we went to a local upholsterer that I had passed many times but never had the need to venture in. Frankly, it’s in a slightly scary part of town where I’d prefer not to stop.

It was a fascinating experience on so many levels, and afterwards I was rather relieved that John (seat-moving husband) and his strength had had to come along.

Having dropped my prancing daughter at her dance class we proceeded up the ramp of a former multi-story car-park which was now being used to house light industrial units. There seemed to be so much going on first thing on a Staurday morning. What a brilliant use of space.

The chair has been left there – rather it than me – with a very tall, exotic gentleman, whose office looked as if it had come from some old manor house (apart from the fact it was all so fake-looking). It was a bit like time travel – on one side of the door was a dirty, breeze-block industrial unit and on the other, a room with a fire, overstuffed armchairs, bookshelves (with fake books), an elaborate mantle piece and bolts of fabric elegantly lying around.

Not only that, but I was faced with the owner in jodpurs, riding boots, greased back hair and waistcoat! Kilburn if nothing if not suprising… So while dreaming of a flexible, easy-to-use Skoda Roomster, allowing me my independence, in actual fact when I go to collect my chair I’ll be rather pleased to have to have husband on hand to remove the seats for me.

Sometimes it’s rather a relief to give into the stereotypical female role – before I snap out of it and give him a list of chores for the weekend!