Something has happened that never happens. I’ve amassed about £20,000 — which probably means £25,000 after a few what-the-hell raids on the mortgage money — to buy a special car, something to love and cherish and feel special in.
In this job, you contemplate such purchases all the time — theoretically. But when you’re ready to lay down actual cash, two unfortunate things happen. First, you realise £25k isn’t much: any thought that this sum makes you special dies during your first scan of the classifieds.
Second, you become stupidly sensible, as it were. Instead of searching for a unique machine of flawed brilliance, something imaginative and brave that no-one else has thought of, you head for the obvious: one of the fairly tired Porsche 911s or half-decent Porsche Boxsters that currently flood the market.