The Smart has a new custodian and I'm excited to discover it's me. Now, this car is meant to be the spiritual recreation of a classic British roadster but I was never entirely convinced. It hasn't broken down, it doesn't become grumpy in traffic, the hood doesn't leak. Then I discovered a mysterious piece of plastic in one of the door bins. Everything inside seemed to work still yet something had definitely fallen off. Perhaps the spirit of the British two-seater really was alive in this snarly little soft-top. Time to pursue this theory, and to make use of evo's Classic Car Club membership, by borrowing a proper old-skool roadster.

The Austin Healey 'Frogeye' Sprite was the natural choice, not least because it's got a similarly smiley face that would make softer-headed types give it a name. Strange to think that the car's signature buggy headlights were originally intended to lay flat on the bonnet, Porsche 928-style, until rigorous cost-paring scuppered that plan at prototype stage.

Strange also to think that, although it looks small enough to slip into your wallet, the Sprite is actually two inches longer than the Smart. Not that this is reflected in the size of the doors, which are so tiny that getting in feels like clambering into an advent calendar. And yet, after an initial loss of dignity and most of my loose change, it's surprising to find that I can actually fit behind the wheel. Huzzah.

So off we go, parping around central London on the basis that some apex-kissing mission across the Cotswolds wouldn't be very flattering to a car with just 43bhp. The sun is shining, which is a mercy considering that my head is occupying a significant portion of where the roof ought to go.

Having the top down also gives you full Surround Sound for the Sprite's fantastically fruity exhaust note which is as joyous as the 948cc A-series' scintillatingly sharp throttle response. What a lost art this has become in modern cars; the feeling that even a grain of sand stuck to the sole of your shoe would be worth another 500rpm. Mind you, what the right-hand pedal gives, the middle one takes away because the brakes are very far from razor-sharp.

You expect that from an old car, and it's the same with the steering, which is rather slow, just as the wheel itself is rather vast. This isn't really a problem unless you're a total clot, forget that overnight rain makes cobbles greasy and that, even with just 0.9-litre power, a car on 145-section tyres will go sideways if you clog it. Pulling everything back together was an undignified festival of flailing arms but we missed hitting a nearby S-class, largely thanks to the Healey's gentle, friendly nature. If you wanted a benign machine in which to learn drifting, this would do nicely. Perhaps with one of those truck driver-style knobs for the steering wheel, just in case you need lots of lock in a hurry.

What's endearing about the Sprite is that it feels so simple and, as a consequence, pretty unbreakable. The properly mechanical gearchange is a case in point, although it won't be rushed. It also sticks in second, which can lead to some botched upchanges and nasty graunches. This is not the sort of uncool grinding you need as you're sailing past the British Museum and a group of Scandinavian-looking girls have just given you an appreciative 'Ooooh' noise that you sincerely hope is Danish for, 'Come back to our hotel room, we've got a trampoline!' In fact, that was the sort of reaction the Healey attracted all day. Drive one of these and women seem to view you as interesting and attractive, without being flash and pushy. A sort of non-threatening sex machine.

So, it looks cute, it feels far faster than it is, it makes a great noise, it has slow steering and an occasionally annoying gearchange, girls love it and it's so overbrimming with fizzy personality that you can forgive it almost any flaws. Turns out the Frogeye Sprite truly was the Smart Roadster of its day. And I love 'em both.