We stopped in the car show at SPAC on Saturday, on the way to soak off our hangovers in the Victoria Pool. I love vintage cars more than I could ever love any piece of vintage clothing, so it was a welcome detour.
Saw a few dream cars:
Rob and I have noticed a bit of a chain reaction with our wine-drinking. We sip a few glasses, get rosy-cheeked, and then we search the Internet for old Citroens. It’s our dream to one day consolidate our wheels to include an old 2CV. This 1956 one lives in my Bookmarks for now: classically beautiful, perfect for sandy beach feet, and they can live through a horizontal roll.
[Shimmying next to a Mini Cooper to some excellent classic tuneage.]
And this. This car… is my soul:
Any car with a wicker basket for extra storage belongs with me. Forget that it’s a Porsche—I’m a Wodehouse; loving fine automobiles is in my blood. It’s the whimsy and love for life—the small things, embracing the journey.
But then the best thing to happen all day occurred when we were inspecting the cruddy interior of a Bricklin SV-1 with Delorean-style doors.
I tried in vain to alert anyone close by about the presence of this mouse, but—typical of weird, prudish Americans with personal space issues—people pretended not to hear me. “There’s a little mouse living in there!” “I saw a mouse in this car. I think it lives there.” “And there’s even a tiny mouse in the glovebox!” It was really awkward.
Then I tugged on Rob’s sleeve and said, “Being vertical is severely hindering my ability to avoid vomiting,” and we were off.
Mouse—you’re my boy.