claytoncast

For the second time in my life, I have bought a new car. I say that with the kind of pride usually reserved for first-time parents or those who manage to grow tomatoes in hanging baskets. Most of my twenties were spent driving my dad’s cast-offs — including a white Ford Escort estate, which felt less like a car and more like a penance. I ask you: a white Ford Escort estate. It was less “motor vehicle” and more “mobile filing cabinet.” Then came a series of small, second-hand affairs: a green 2CV that got me through a year in Stratford — though the first time I pressed the accelerator, it went through the floor like a cartoon. That was followed by a bright orange Mini called Sebastian who gamely carried me through late-night rehearsals and even later-night chips in Soho. After Sebastian, there was Tristram Polo — a tank by comparison. Tristram was the scene of a minor disagreement with the law over the alcohol content of a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He was sold off quietly and cheaply, li...