Regrettably, my car purchasing has not been particularly intelligent. I'm very easily seduced by the tricks that my imagination, manipulated by the marketing people, plays in my decision taking.
I remember walking around the Aston showroom under the perfect lighting, looking at the gleaming bodywork. I could see myself looking suave as I crunched over the gravel of an expensive country hotel or cruising through the Côte d'Azur to Italy with polite but condescending acknowledgement of the locals drooling over the shapely evidence of my success. This car would give me my dreams. This car would make me handsome, sophisticated and successful.
The reality is different. The car is beautiful but, I'm still a bit ugly. I tend not to look suave but rather bewildered and exhausted. I don't tour the glamorous regions of Europe, I crash through the potholes of West Sussex at four in the morning on the way to the airport. In fourteen months of ownership, my wife and I have only been away in it once. To visit the factory where it was built! With two careers and three teenagers at home, we simply don't have time to go anywhere.
What's missing is not the right car to make the dream come true, but rather, the time to give the dreams a chance. It's not the objects that count, it's the experiences you have with the objects.
When I'm on my deathbed, the success of my life will not be measured by the total value of all the cars I have owned. The percentage of my life spent with a smile on my face will be a far better measure.
I need less glamour and more fun. That should be a simple equation.
