Dream cars of the head, not just the heart

摘要

My Dad always had a thing for big cars. He fancied owning a proper American shooting brake, something like a 1968 Chevrolet Impala Station Wagon. With the right (i.e. the biggest) V8 motor and automatic transmission the Impala could, in careful hands, squeeze a shade under 20 miles out of a gallon of petrol. And it was big. I mean BIG: 18 feet long and a fraction less than seven feet wide. Did we, by any chance, live on a ranch somewhere? No. We lived in a small flat in suburban London. The garage that came with the flat would comfortably have accommodated about two-thirds of it at most. Why, then, did this remain his dream car? Why could I discern a faraway look in his eye when opening the garage doors and contemplating the Austin Maxi that instead found itself ferrying us around?