Finding Lomax (Or, Love in the Sainsbury’s Car Park)

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, like a family heirloom no one quite wants. There followed several carless years (or as I like to think of them, pavement-rich years) until married life nudged me back behind the wheel. Eventually, Fonz arrived — a gleaming Mazda MX-5 fastback that turned heads and corners with equal flair. Impractical for single life, mind you. The boot held exactly two small holdalls and nothing more — no room for impulse buys or regret-shaped purchases from John Lewis. Still, Fonz and I had our moments — even after a mild altercation with a low wall (not my fault, truly), he fetched more in part exchange than I paid for him. Which led me to EJ: a Mazda 3 Sports Lux. Practical. Sensible. Navy blue. Disappeared in car parks. The problem with EJ was precisely that — in a sea of indistinguishable silver, black and grey, he was a stealth vehicle in every sense. I spent more time playing Where’s Wally in the Sainsbury’s car park than I ever did driving him. Now, Brayden — my better half and full-time car enthusiast — has a Lexus GS. He doesn’t name his cars, but he loves them, talks about them with the fondness others reserve for labradors or grandchildren. He even brings people and their cars together through Vengaworld, his brilliant and beautifully bonkers car-meets-community venture. So when talk turned to a new car, Brayden was positively evangelical. “Join Club Lexus,” he said, as if it were a spa. “Treat yourself.” My only condition? Colour. I don’t care about torque or trim or whether it goes from 0 to 60 in the time it takes to butter toast. But I do care about whether I can find it with three bags of frozen peas in my arms. So when the dealership asked what I was looking for, I told them plainly: “Not black. Not white. Not silver. Not grey.” I wanted something you’d remember. Something you’d spot from orbit. Something my mother would call “a bit much.” And lo, they produced Lomax. Technically, he’s a Lexus LBX Original Edition, sonic copper with a black roof and more technology than the Space Shuttle. But he had me at hello—or rather, he had me at the red bow tied across his bonnet and the Lexus teddy bear waiting in the driver’s seat like a chauffeur with paws. He’s called Lomax after his number plate, because every car needs a name. He greets me by name on the dashboard when I slide into the seat, adjusting the wheel and mirrors with a loyalty that feels faintly romantic. He knows if it’s Brayden or me driving and changes his settings accordingly. If we slump, he tells us to sit up. If we get distracted, he nudges us — gently, like a librarian reminding you to keep it down. This weekend, we took Lomax to the coast, where he behaved beautifully, even if we still don’t know what half the buttons do. I suspect even Katy Perry would struggle with the dashboard, and she’s been to space, allegedly. But the real triumph? Monday morning. Sainsbury’s car park. Three bags of shopping. And there he was: gleaming, unmistakable, utterly mine. Now that, my friends, is love.