An early memory is sitting in the front of my mother’s pristine Ford Anglia, passed to her from her father, driving down the motorway and looking out to see my father’s father, who owned an equally pristine Volkswagen Beetle.
Both are ‘everyman’ cars, but each is a design classic in its own right.
Another memory is helping my auntie and uncle at their garage, sitting on the counter handing out fanbelts or whatever customers needed, using the old-style cash register and accompanying my auntie on buying trips.
It always looked likely that cars would play some part in my life.
My current classic is a 1981 Mercedes-Benz R107 280SL, bought five years ago from a dealer who trades mostly in TVRs.
My previous car, a 1991 5.3-litre Jaguar XJS V12, didn’t suit a relocation up to the Isle of Skye, and when I moved down to the Scottish Borders I was on the lookout for something a little more compact for the country roads.
The Merc is a divisive car, but I love it. The bodywork is in the original Inca Red with no visible respray, the interior is the original brown-and-orange tweed, and the soft-top is in era-defining brown.
