A TALE OF TWO CITIES

London. Munich. There you are, two cities. Enough about that as I only wanted them for the title.
The Missus has a new car, one of Bavaria's finest. Oops, Munich again.
She kindly asked my advice when buying it, though my approach to car buying is probably not what you'd call on for, shall we say, sage counsel.
This is because it is all heart, and very little head.
Whereas the car in the purchase decision is all head. It delivers complete commonsense performance ratios. If it was a spreadsheet it would add up. Down, and across. It does at least twice, and maybe even three times the miles to the gallon that the Rangie does. It has, somewhere in its immaculate engineering, a computer which connects up all the gadgets you own and makes them usable on the move. It has a pristine interior, rather like a just cleaned meeting room. It has seven gears, and, if it didn't think it would be just too interesting, it would probably have more. It has a virtually silent engine so that you and your colleagues can have a fascinating conversation about efficiency ratios or usage patterns or things involving square meters. Its interior is beige. Come to think of it, its engine is beige. Or, more likely, Lufthansa grey.
If the car had a personality (which it doesn't) it would be a that of a robot, without a personality. It would collect stamps, only all the same stamp. It would speak a slightly German accented EuroEnglish (which its satnav does). It would concern itself with oral hygiene and body mass indices. It would not eat fat. It would say things like "I like you very much" and "hello". It would pretend to like music, so as not to be uncool. Its top button would be done up. It would know the employee handbook, and be able to refer to it.
By contrast, the Missus's beloved book keeper turned up at our place with quite a different proposition - a fin de siecle Jag V8. I looked at it goggle eyed, much as I might look at a well endowed gal who'd just turned up naked. I think my first word about it was "phwoar"!
"I'd love to have a go in that," I said, and amazed, found the keys thrust into my hand.
Entering the Jag is entering a world apart. A world no longer quite available. A world with much to do with the Dorchester, and the Reform Club. Except the Jag wouldn't have had any truck with signing the 1832 Act, and would very probably have been a sitting MP in one of the Rotten Boroughs with full seigneurial rights. The seat certainly felt as though it had been occupied for centuries, generations by venerable aristocratic behinds. I felt instantly privileged to sit there. I almost made a maiden speech. But I was cut short by the silken roar of the V8. I drove the car sedately for ten miles, savouring the unspeakable power which, if I had been crass enough to do so, I could have unleashed under my right foot. I thought the walnut panels would probably have hidden bookcases. Most certainly, hidden decanters. Every second in it was a pleasure. If I owned one, I'd never listen to the radio, never answer a phone call. That car was foie gras, on wheels. It was like going to bed with all the barmaids at your local all at once, with a fine port and a cigar to round it all off. I only wish I had been wearing a toga, and a laurel wreath to honour the moment of power and glory. Instead, I inherited a deep sense of contentment and satisfaction, as I followed the silver prowling beast on the bonnet through the local lanes, feeling that I should in fact be heading for Westminster, and the corridors of power. Oops, London. (So maybe it was a tale of two cities).
I emerged at a loss for verbal superlatives. My maiden speech in the house waas a short one.
"Now that," I said, not knowing what else to say, "IS a car."