As far back as I can remember, I always wanted a steam engine. When I was five my parents promised that I could have one when I was 12: I think they thought I’d forget. I didn’t, and seven Christmases later I unwrapped a model traction engine made by the Birmingham firm of Mamod. It was chunky and basic, and its bright green and red paint gave it a toy-like appearance. But its brass valves and copper pipes were unquestionably the real thing. Out in the garden, Dad and I lit it up. The engine grew warm, it hissed; its flywheel whirred into life. And a glorious aroma filled the morning air: a blend of hot metal, WD40 and the sweet, chemical fragrance of burning fuel tablets. One breath and I was hooked.
I doubt my parents would have bought my first engine if they’d had to go through the Home Office first
Well, not for much longer if the Home Office has anything to do with it.
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