The Range Rover was 40 on 17 June, which is cause for congratulation even if relations with the three I’ve owned were not uniformly harmonious.
They were all what are now called Classics and in good condition would be appreciating assets. The first, a 1972 two-door, accompanied me to South Africa where it suffered a mysterious, unheralded engine seizure. Shipped back to Britain, it was given a brand-new engine transplant, sold to friends to revive my finances and taken by them to Angola where it spent months in a container, undocked. When eventually it landed, a lorry drove into it. After more months waiting for parts it was sold to someone who drove it over a landmine. RIP.
The second was an old dog on which I spent a fortune and which I was struggling to sell when someone stole it.
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