Just watched the Wheeler Dealers on the Bedford CA camper where they stuck a Pinto in it.
They said that Pintos are hard to find and expensive. With the thousands that must have been around?:rolleyes:
Well, I've got various bits of Pintos around, from whole engines to heads and gearboxes.
Maybe I should "out" a few!!;);) One thing he did say was that "Kit car builders like them" never a truer word said!;););)
 
Did you finally bag a wabbit:D.

Pics or we know you went to the soupermarket:).

J
Hopefully this is within the boundaries for those who don't live like a caveman.

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Morning folks:).

Time to start work with a hop in my step:).

Today it has been decided "we" will stack wood in the rear porch in prep for the orrible weather, often find the more you prep the more it dont happen:confused:.
This evening I will be picking splinters out of my "soft" hands:p.

Gloves are for girls:rolleyes:.
J
 
The poem by John McCrae
In Flanders' fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders' fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders' Fields.
 
The poem by John McCrae
In Flanders' fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders' fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders' Fields.
Maybe that should replace the Lords Prayer.

Col
 
Its that time of year again.
A man I never met, my Uncle "Sonny" (my Father's elder brother) who was killed in the latter stages of the war. Just 20 years old and a tail-end Charlie "Flight Sergeant" in a heavy bomber.
So sad that so many brave young lads had to give everything so that we could be free.
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