Fast cars

This is my dream car. A Caterham Seven. I have always been determined to own a sports car before I lost all my hair, and looked like the sort of sad, mid-life crisis wracked male who is generally the only sort of person who can afford one. The last car I actually owned was a Renault 5. And my hairline is rapidly receding past the equinox.

I should at least be a good insurance bet. After the age of 17, I have never made a claim. I think I am a safe driver. Which is a little difficult to square with wanting a car that is known for its track performance. I have, however, always done my best to avoid breaking pedestrians' legs. Which is more than some drivers I have encountered. I know that insurance companies don't like insuring musicians though. I think they imagine that we all pile out of gigs in a drug-induced frenzy, wild on tequila and Mojitos, and impressing the groupies on our arms. I can't say that this accurately describes my experiences of leaving such glorious venues as the Coliseum in Aberdare, glad to have finished the twenty fourth performance of the Barber of Seville, and having polished off a night’s work with a cup of tea.

All of which brings me to my point. My brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law came around yesterday for a cup of tea. He is a difficult brother for the penniless car enthusiast to have, as his job involves testing new cars. He is about to start work on a new TVR, which is apparently capable of 0-60 in under 4 seconds. I don’t think I actually went visibly green with envy… It at least meant that he could help get me to the park with the kids, as getting there and back is still a little too far on crutches, and Sarah finds using the wheelchair too hefty.

On route, we were able to encounter the weekend road users of Croydon. Oh dear. Having given up a (minor) smoking habit, I had always managed to avoid becoming one of those annoying anti-smoking vigilantes. The same level of post-trauma understanding does not seem to distinguish my attitude after having been flattened by an RTA. It is particularly galling to see somebody safely cross the road through the tried and tested method of holding out their hand to stop traffic, whilst stepping off the kerb and not looking. Why aren’t these people hobbling around with scaffolding nailed to their legs? Is there no justice? Why can’t the speeding twits doing wheelies on mopeds through residential areas simply take themselves quietly out of the gene pool, without threatening any of the rest of us? And why do they build in safety features to the design of BMWs, when all it means is that the prats who drive them will kill somebody other than themselves when they thoughtfully test the acceleration in a crowded suburb. I’d put the airbags on the bumpers, and make the BMW logo on the steering wheel spiky. Not that I’m bitter. Much.

I wonder if my annoying road safety awareness will continue once I can drive again? The family car is visible from the sofa. I very much suspect that the battery is flat. In the meantime, I shall continue to fantasise about my fast car. I just have to wait until I’m completely bald. It can’t be too long now…