An Obituary for a Dream

Updated on March 15, 2018

Herself

Many moons ago, one of my work colleagues decided to off-load his Jaguar Sovereign which had developed a serious rash. He was looking to pass on this mobile monument to the God of Rust to the first unsuspecting fool to cross his path, only to bump into me.

Now I have been a car freak most of my life and have owned everything from an Issetta Bubble car to a Series 3 Chevy Camaro but never a Jag. Irish I maybe but thick I am not and when he gave me his asking price, I asked to speak to his therapist. After explaining to him about people taking cars to dark lonely scrap yards and never been seen again, he succumbed, and I got it for a song.

Alright, it was a bit of a rust bucket (I didn’t think cars could get leprosy) but mechanically it was sound as a pound with an engine that sang like a canary and a gearbox as smooth as silk. It didn’t matter that a decent owner would have called a priest, I was hooked. The Jaguar had bitten. Anyone who has a chance to drive one of the late 90’s XJ’s should grab the opportunity with both hands because anything you’ve ever driven will pale into insignificance once you’ve experienced the magic carpet ride that only a Jaguar can give you.

But I digress; this first purchase met an early death and is now a fridge-freezer in Northern China, but I immediately bought another, much better condition (and much more expensive). Some years later the tin worms ate it, so I bought another and yes, I do need help.

Unfortunately, this time the tin worms bypassed the Jag and came for me. Old age ambushed me and my day’s of climbing under cars are now just a distant dream so my moments off wafting along, waiving at peasants, are over. It’s the end of an era (or an addiction) and my chariot of heavenly bliss has been sold (pause for sympathetic music).

OK, I’m old and sad; pining over a collection of bent tin, but if you don’t believe that cars can have a soul then you are, and I mean no offence, a cyclist!

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