The only car I have felt unsafe in is a Morgan. It was a sort of pink leather bath on wheels that screamed down the road while men over sixty waved at it. I was right to be nervous. The delivery man crashed it on the way home. A photograph of the crushed Morgan – it was distinctive when formed, and even more so when broken – was circulated on Facebook by the man who recovered it. I initially thought the delivery driver was dead. (He wasn’t. ‘Road conditions,’ he said, when I telephoned him in hospital. It had rained).
I don’t mind telling you this, because I will never drive another Morgan because I want to live. The Morgan cannot be made safe; if it were invented now, as part of a motoring branch of cottage core, it would not be allowed on the road. Its owners do not want it to be safe; if they did, they would buy a Honda Jazz.
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