When I was young (BC - Before Children) I worked just off Berkeley Square in London, and every day I would walk past the HR Owen showrooms and look in at the gleaming, glowering beauty of the Rolls Royce and Bentley. Every day I would gaze upon these cars that represent so much, and every day I would know I was just a few breaths and a few steps away from the magnificence of the true Kings of motoring.
You might be forgiven for thinking I am a dyed in the wool petrol head and a fully paid up member of the Jeremy Clarkson appreciation society, but no... I do not like cars. To me they are like microwave meals, nasty, tasteless and bad for you. The car I own is small, silver and instantly forgettable. It transports me from here to there and back again in relative safety, and I am grateful. It's quicker than walking, but there is nothing more to it than that. There are millions of them, and each one was birthed, like a laboratory clone, with no passion, no inspiration and definitely no love. The makers know some uninspired punter will buy another one, and so we do...
But this car - this beautiful piece of excellence in engineering, fused with a passion that makes my blood tingle in my veins, has given me something I would not have believed. This car has spoken to me, and I have heard its voice - and now I am forever...in love.