Three litres of joy
I have very little interest in cars. Big, fat, bubbly new lumps of predominantly black plastic, bobbing around the streets; getting bigger than the width of parking bays; driven by either small people who look even smaller sitting above the masses, or fat people who look like an almost good fit for the monstrous hunks of steroid-inflated tut. A sweeping and, more likely than not, totally misguided generalisation, I agree; but put next to the completely unsafe, uneconomical rust-buckets of yesteryear, today’s cars look like roid-riddled distant cousins of the stylish and finesse filled automobiles from the past. Imagine my joy, when visiting my in-laws this weekend, to find that their next door neighbour (a retired mechanic) owns not only a 1950’s BSA motorbike, but also a three litre, fuel injected 1984 Ford Capri. Zero handling, zero power steering, zero vision in the driver’s seat. Design classic to the max. Whatever.