If I were a car, I’d be an SUV, because I’m large, slow and fond of the outdoors, yet less brave than I want you to think.
The problem is that I don’t much like SUVs. In fact, I’ve been slagging them off for years. They’re cumbersome, profligate, wasteful and only fun in the one environment they’ll never visit. But I had to think of something.
Then and from nowhere, the idea of the Range Rover Sport appeared. I wasn’t worried, for random hilarious thoughts tinged with just a hint of plausibility do occasionally bubble to the surface of my mind before bursting.
But the Range Rover Sport-shaped bubble didn’t burst. It bobbed. Up and down like that bloody plastic submarine that wouldn’t sink in the bath when I was a kid.
I could, of course, stop thinking about it whenever I liked, but that’s not solving the problem; it’s just walking into the next room. Every time I returned, there it was. Bob, bob, bob. So I had to give it serious thought; like a bad dream, it was the only way to rid it from my mind.