Out walking at the weekend with my wife, bemoaning the general lack of taste and decorum among the more affluent residents of the city we’ve just moved to, and especially narked by the blingy cars many of them seem to opt for. I start calling out the names of the vehicles I see around me, as if to prove a point. Range Rover Evoque. Porsche Cayenne. Audi Q7. Evoque. Porsche Panamera. Jensen Interceptor. Another Evoque. Wait a minute, what was that second-last one?
It appears there is one person at least with rather exquisite taste. A 1970s British performance car that hasn’t been cheapened by endless appearances in Hollywood movies and on ‘retro’ mugs and t-shirts, and one in a lovely shade of metallic blue at that. The owner of this clearly knows what they are doing. We stop for a few minutes to gawp – or more correctly I stop to gawp, my wife waits impatiently. Even outdoors with a slight breeze, the smell of the leather interior is strong enough to carry out the doors, through the windows and onto the pavement. Perhaps the north-east isn’t so bad after all.