Unlike, I suspect, most people reading this, I’ve only been into cars for the last 10 years. My excuse is I’m 19 years old, and that still makes it the longest relationship I’ve ever had – and by far the least disappointing. I’ve fallen for V8s, forgiven French electrics, and spent more time on AutoTrader than I care to admit. But when it comes to actually owning something? There the fantasy stalls.
Because that part? That’s grim.
There are still posters on my wall. Still exhaust noise clips bookmarked. Still a childish, irrational love for cars I’ll never drive. But here in the actual world where insurance exists and bank balances have numbers in double digits, I drive a Peugeot 107. Not because I want to. Not because it stirs something within me, but because it was cheap, had five doors, and my parents were kind enough to make the transaction. It’s not a car you buy because you’re passionate. It’s a car you accept, like instant coffee or Crocs in a heatwave.
