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Car Appeal
Tom Bussman considers that, "vainglory", one of the Seven Deadly Sins, is best observed among car-lovers:
Vainglory goes beyond mere blind self-approval and into the rarified realm of flaunting. It calls for a degree of dedication to one's own self-image normally confined to politicians or the acting profession. Am I above all this? Far from it. I was once the possessor of a ludicrously over-powered and over-priced four-wheel penile substitute: a Porsche Carrera convertible.
My long-suffering family, to their credit, by and large refused to be seen in the thing. If I ever offered to do the school run, my sensitive children demanded to be set down a good half-mile from the school gates. Should they be seen by any fellow pupils, the line was that a plausible kidnapper had enticed them into the vehicle, and only quick wits plus basic karate had ensured their escape. Even at the zenith, or nadir of Thatcherism (depending on your politics) a bus-pass carried far more street cred than a ride in Daddy's Porsche.
All too rarely, vainglory brings with it comeuppance. I was ready to take a kid or two on the Saturday pilgrimage, top-down, engine throbbing, to "Toys 'R' Them". Only problem, I can't find my **** wallet. There then ensues my usual frenzy, ignored, as usual, by my family. My other half, teeth welded through habit, leaves me to it and sets out on foot with offspring as I contemplate wholesale telephonic credit card massacre. Not in the best of tempers, I wrench open the door of my status symbol and wrestle down the hood. I then click on my seatbelt and, would you believe it, next to my seat, is my wallet. What a happy chap I am!
I join the traffic and start off up the road at 4.9 mph, my lips going brrrrm, brrrrm. Joys of Spring? Definitely. There, ahead, is my grim-spined spouse with handfuls of sprogs heading for the horrors of the Northern Line. My chance to cheer her up, wouldn't you say? As I draw level, I wave my newly-found wallet, tooting my horn the whilst. At which point comes my comeuppance, big time. I suddenly see myself as others must see me - a balding man in a Porsche Carrera convertible, waving his wallet to passers-by. The horror! It was as though I had become the central character in a Franz Kafka nightmare, and woken up to find myself converted into - Michael Winner. Aaaaargh!
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