Down an alley, through a gate, in the bowels of a tenement block, a car park. Above it a garden shed painted white: clotheslines and bars on windows. But now it’s night. No sheets flapping in the wind. Nobody pottering in the shed with next year’s dahlias. The darkness is navy blue. And it’s quiet. Very quiet.The car, centred in a pool of light at the bottom of the ramp, is ready. Any moment those headlamps could snap on, the engine roar into life. It’s waiting, that’s all, just waiting. For now.
I was roaming around the Colonies and parked there was this car. Don’t ask me what make it was, I’m a complete duffer on cars. I can only tell you it was of that era (the 1950s perhaps?) that is now known as a classic car. Big and handsome and glossily virile it was. But then I saw the front lights and those sinuous curves – a sexily feminine touch on a very masculine car.