The mid-life crisis has arrived early. It took me by surprise. I woke up, made coffee and at the very point I would usually be thinking, ‘Oo, I must put the recycling out,’ I thought, ‘Oo, I must buy a Porsche.’
How can this happen? I hate flash cars. My motoring history includes two small Peugeots, a Renault 5 with flower transfers down the side and a broken accelerator pedal, and a fire-engine red Ford Fiesta called Bunbury, after the non-existent character in The Importance of Being Earnest.
It just shows how powerful is the urge to cling in vain to the remnants of one’s youth. One minute I was happily pootling down the A3 in my battered 206 listening to the best of Barbra Streisand, the next I was frantically searching through hundreds of shiny, boy racer Carrera 4s on ExchangeandMart.com. I narrowed it down to two, a navy blue one and a green one, both convertibles, very flash.
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