I'm a bit of a worrier, when it comes to using my Williams. Every time I book up a track day, I question what I'm doing to such a nice little car. The most recent track day was at Castle Combe and, whilst most people carried on blissfully unbothered about their car's well-being, I worried about what I was inflicting on mine.

I know this type of tom-foolery is what cars like this were built for, but I do feel shame in thrashing such a clean and well loved example. Before I bought this car it was polished vigorously, driven gently, and generally pampered to the extreme. Now its very existence is frequently threatened as it goes barrelling into corners with gravel traps and tyres walls just a throttle-lift away. And let's not forget; there are very few of these cars left now, and even fewer really nice ones. I don't fancy being the unfortunate sod to take yet another off the road.

But, damn it, this is so much fun. At Camp, Combe's fast right-hander that leads onto the start-finish straight, it's a serious test of self-control to contain the lift-off oversteer. That's the thing with hot hatches - they're so easy to drive on the limit that, rather than worry about power-oversteering into the kitty litter in an expensive sports car, you can be free to drive up to your very limits without any concern. It's something I'm perhaps taking to a little too literally, I think to myself, as I spin off into Combe's infield.

Thankfully there's no harm done, and in nine months of ownership that's the first time anything like that has happened; more to do with the predictable and forgiving chassis than any skill involved. And it's not for a want of opportunities, either - so far I've done Anglesey, Donington, Cadwell, Oulton, Combe and a sprint day at Haynes motor museum circuit. Even with the guilt, there's been no respite for this little fella.

But whatever the abuse I throw at it, it never complains or shows disdain at my ill-treatment. Well, there was this one time, at Donington Park, when I melted a brake piston-shaped hole through one of the brake pads. But track days and standard brakes have never seen eye-to-eye, so that's hardly a surprise. I wanted to keep the car as standard as possible, but I didn't think risking the same standard setup again was a wise idea, so for just £380 I replaced the rather frazzled standard brakes with some Wilwood 4-pot calipers with matching pads, Ferodo standard-sized discs and braided hoses. It all weighs less than the standard setup too so, although completely undetectable to a ham-fisted buffoon such as myself, it's got to be worth the asking price just for bragging rights on internet forums.

The sum total of parts I've had to pay out for over the past two months is: head-light bulbs, a light stalk, a set of floor mats and a pair of door cards. The floor mats and door cards can be written-off as a case of personal preference for change (back to standard) and the bulbs as a simple case of maintenance.

The light stalk, however, cannot be written-off as anything but a lethal contraption that almost wrote-off both me and the car. I'm sure many of you have experienced driving without lights at night on an unlit road, (all in the name of youthful boredom - or was that just me?), but it was probably at a rather slow pace, in a straight line and for only a brief moment. Imagine doing the same but at a much faster pace, with corners looming and not having the option of putting the lights back on. This is what an innocent Williams light stalk can subject you to, should it choose to jam between positions. During a particularly spirited late-night drive on a twisty A-road, it's not what you want. I've not looked at light stalks in the same way since.

Other than that scary moment the car has not once let me down. Apart from the suspension overhaul (see previous entry), the brake upgrade and the service (routine stuff) it's demanded very little from my wallet. Hell, it even went through its MoT without a single advisory last week.

With such a smug, rosy outlook on Williams ownership, expect plenty of expletives and threats of classified ads in the next A-J entry, as it undoubtedly decides I've tempted fate a little too blatantly…