From Elspeth Barker Q. On the day that our Ford
Fiesta convulsed its last, my husband had providently purchased an equally inexpensive oxblood-red Mercedes-Benz at the local auction. How joyful we were as it bore us homeward, obedient and powerful, roaring delicately. But our joy was shortlived, for those very faces which over the decades have observed the noisy antics of our worthless cars through market squares and muddy lanes in silent sympathy, albeit tinged with bucolic mirth, are now twisted to doltish malice. Drivers cut in on bends or pursue us, hugging our rear bumper, flashing headlights, gesticulating. Clearly I, the dedicated driver, have by this purchase moved out of my league and become an affront to the average motorist. I am no better than I should be and they want to teach me a lesson. I even heard one speak of me as ‘Lady Muck in her f****** Mercedes’. I have a nervous disposition and I drive with great care, courtesy and cowardice. Oh dear Mary, how may we ever regain our innocent and unaccustomed pleasure in a car that is glamorous, comfortable and working? Legal, too.
A. Why not change envy to self-interest by pasting a postcard in the passenger window declaring ‘For Sale £100’? Give a mobile number with one of the digits rained on.
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