Slow life

Being driven is one of the great luxuries. It’s right up there with breakfast in bed, silence, sunshine, new socks and vast expanses of marble. It’s elevating. It’s relaxing. It’s addictive. How lovely it is to fall into the back of a waiting car to be expertly magic carpeted off to, well, even to places one would rather not be going.

My car expired at the start of summer, and, despite my best efforts, until this week I hadn’t replaced it. I seemed to be coming out ahead, more by sloppiness than by design. I needed a car, or thought I did, but the cost of second-hand cars was falling by more each month than what I was spending on a chauffeur each month, and it’s fair to say that I’ve been using the local chauffeur company a lot. I even had to book them to take the cat for its operation in Solihull.