I was interested to read that James Bond’s Aston Martin DB5, expected to fetch more than $1 million at auction next month, wasn’t always reliable . . .

TWITCHING the Aston through the rain-slicked roundabout, Bond floored the bespoke Zwillinger throttle beneath his James Lobb loafer, took off down the long Chippenham straight, and began to close on Goldfinger’s Testarossa.

It was at that instant that his race-tuned ear picked up the tink-tink-tink from deep inside the pedigree bowels. It became a tonk-tonk-tonk. The car lost speed. Bond cursed, swung into a fortuitous BP forecourt, sprang out and threw up the bonnet. A small overalled man appeared beside him.

“Know what that is?” said the mechanic, peering.

“What?” cried Bond, relieved.

“Smoke,” said the mechanic. “You see a lot of that in my job. You get to recognise it.”

“How long would it take to fix?” said 007.

The mechanic looked at his watch. “Twelve days,” he said, “give or take. I am on the pumps till Tuesday week, due to Norman being in Doncaster with his Auntie May’s funny turn. He is her only heir, narmean?”

“Leave the pumps!” snapped Bond. “This is a national emergency.”

“Leave the pumps?” cried the mechanic. “You cannot leave pumps, son. You got to watch ’em every minute. They are like children, pumps.”

“Very well,” gritted Bond. “May I use your phone?”

“It is for bona fide customers only,” replied the mechanic, nodding towards a sign. “We are not a public wossname.”

“Oh, God,” sighed Bond, and hit the mechanic behind the ear with a deft Yakimuro chop. Then he dialled the AA.

TWO HOURS later the AA arrived. “Are you the party,” said the patrolman, opening his briefcase, “who wanted The Pop-Up Book of British Mice, or are you the party wishing to take advantage of our combined Room Extension Insurance and Two Hang-Gliding Holidays For the Price of One Offer?”

It was noon. Five hours to Goldfinger’s terrible deadline. The hand in Bond’s Gieves & Hawkes’s pocket slipped the safety of his 9mm Walther PPK. “No,” he murmured, “I’m the party who shoots people.”

The AA van drove fairly well, all in all, despite the weight of ovenware, garden gnomes and boxed sets of Jeffrey Archer, and Bond made fair time until he reached Sunbury, when several dozen cuckoo clocks began shrieking from the containers behind him. Bond glanced at his Patek-Philippe. It was 2pm. Goldfinger and his bomb would be in Parliament Square by now.

Bond needed a smoke. He flicked open the Asprey’s case. It was empty. He slewed the van into the kerb, leapt out, jinked desperately between the thronging shoppers, and ran into a tobacconist’s. There being a slight delay due to Bond’s inability to translate into passable Gujurati his request for a packet of Hagermann & Snipstone’s Perfectos Finos Number 33, it was five minutes before, clutching a carton of Silk Cut, he regained the van.

It now had ROY KEEN SUKS aerosoled down one flank. Its wheels were gone. Bond stared at it, bit his knuckle, and ran back into the shop.

“Avertz Car Rental,” murmured the phone, “your pleasure is our duty.”

“I urgently need,” shouted Bond, “an extremely fast car . . .”

“From our exclusive range of Jaguars, Mercedes, BMWs, or other fine high-performance executive yet competitively priced automobiles, sir?”

“Exactly!” cried Bond. “Deliver it to the Sunbury Odeon in the next 30 minutes and charge it to my account.”

Two hours later a Fiat Punto rattled up. “See, I had it down as Sudbury,” said the delivery driver. “It is on account of them silly mares on the fourth floor not pressing hard enough on the top chitty.”

“Why is it an old Fiat Punto?” croaked Bond. “I ordered a . . .”

“It is always an old Fiat Punto,” said the man. “You got to watch this one, mind, go more than, what, 40, and it wanders all over the bloody road.”

Bond fainted.

NOT THAT he needed to worry. Goldfinger, having stopped for barely half a minute at a gents outside Staines, had returned to find the Ferrari clamped.