So this is it... where I am now. The working class man in England. You'd might be thinking my motoring interests do not reach beyond the boundaries of cars that are good enough for commuting only and you'd be right. In fact, I'd fall for a car that's reliable, takes me from A to B, that is a workhorse, a proper car in other words - for me, the working class man.
When you're enclosed in a space along with a bunch of Polish and Brazilian people among millions of eggs and a production line, you do not think about cars. Jaguars do not drift thgough your imagination sideways, nor Veyrons run flat out close to half of the speed of sound. You only think of a pint of beer to put you to rest and the scent of fresh air as you leave the premises of the factory. You do not care about the dent on the car's door, nor the dust on the floor carpet.
You want one thing only. To get your will established, to get to the next workplace and enjoy the ride while you're at it.
Your mind picks up a different approach about the whole sensation of driving, no matter what your car is. The B-road becomes a road course, the roundabout the Karussell, the indifferent humming of the l4 engine is replaced by heavy metal music on your laughable stereo, crystallizing a grin on your face as if you were commanding a V8.
With a left-hand drive car driving on the left, the proximity of the trees combined with the mild velocity you pass them transforms reality to warp speed.
You're wearing a different licence plate of a country anyone's hardly heard of, getting looks at the red light as if you were a madman tearing up your car to pieces just to put yourself to the wrong seat, blasting into the undisturbed, civilized world with all your shabbiness and still make things work.
You used your car to get here and stay for good, only to defy the rules of commodity that is represented by proper, sub-five-year cars in the streets.
The Escort.
The one with American origin, given birth in England, tossed to Germany, shipped to Hungary and now being returned to the place where it was concieved in the first place.
The underdog.
That's me in the traffic.
That's me at the red light.
That's me in the car park by the warehouse.
That's me when not paying enough attention at one point and almost causing an accident.
That's me through A4.
That's us, me and my car - the working class and the hero.
