Scenarios in which an open top sports car is a good idea -
Bit of a rant after I borrowed the mid-life crisis and took it for a spin this afternoon? ... And coughed. And wheezed. And shivered. And was informed that I had "Mad hair!" ... Yes. Sorry.
Jealous ... ABSOLUTELY not.
REALLY, really not.
Not AT ALL.
In future, I opt for breathing clean air. And inverse snobbery in my cheap, lidded, run around on wheels. And a car that Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins can shed hair into and dribble over without inciting major warfare.
- it's not raining.
- the driver of the open top sports car is in possession of a mackintosh and sowester - in the event of 1. being incorrect - or is accompanied by a similarly clad passenger who is happy to hold a magic umbrella over their heads - magic because the erection of any umbrella currently in manufacture inside a moving roofless car will result in the prompt inversion of the umbrella, thus rendering it utterly useless. Except as an object of ridicule (see 4 below). Or the driver knows where the button is to reconstitute the car's roof, turning it into a claustrophobically small vehicle with all the visibility of a shoe box with an assortment of narrow windows cut out by a child wielding blunt scissors and as much knowledge of the highway code as he has for nuclear physics.
- the driver is deaf. Or likes music of considerable gusto and volume. He (because it is usually a he) will struggle to hear anything over the noise of plumped-up rubber on tarmac six inches below his ear.
- the driver has a thick skin and is proud of his car and of what it says about his style. And he is deaf anyway (see 3) so oblivious to the sneering references to 'small things' at traffic lights.
- the driver doesn't care about his hair (it will look a mess). Or hat (it will blow off). Or scarf (he will look ridiculous).
- the driver does not suffer from OCD and regards the accumulating pile of other people's rubbish, lobbed in a game of "see if we can chuck this into the sports car" and now littering his foot-well, as a form of modern art and representative of his full immersion into urban culture.
- the car is only driven on private roads in the open countryside. Or the driver is wearing an oxygen mask. Or has a severe head cold. Or suffers from anosmia. Or is fond of the smell of exhaust fumes from every other vehicle on the road. Or has brought about an engineering revolution where the exhaust pipes of all other vehicles are now required by law to be positioned above vehicle roof height thus removing them from standard sports car altitude.
- the driver is endowed with sufficient blubber to keep out the cold. Or it is sunny.
Bit of a rant after I borrowed the mid-life crisis and took it for a spin this afternoon? ... And coughed. And wheezed. And shivered. And was informed that I had "Mad hair!" ... Yes. Sorry.
Jealous ... ABSOLUTELY not.
REALLY, really not.
Not AT ALL.
In future, I opt for breathing clean air. And inverse snobbery in my cheap, lidded, run around on wheels. And a car that Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins can shed hair into and dribble over without inciting major warfare.
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