I loved this car. I truly, madly, deeply loved this magnificent motor. I don’t know why. She was not racy, her engine being only 1.6. She was not furnished with lovely leather to embrace one as one rode in her. She was not particularly upper motoring class.
But she will forever be my super Samantha who stayed with me for quite a while and only left when I did not have the money to support both of us. On that day, my heart broke…never to be fully repaired.
Oh, Samantha forgive me!
Just looking at your photo after all these years brings back the sting of my regret. I ought to have processed it, forgotten it, forgiven myself. I ought to have done an awful lot of things, but at times like that my options failed to materialise before me, so I sold you to the highest bidder. I just hope that the cared for you in the same manner that I did and that you were not on the receiving end of any undue rough handling. You were a lady.
I was first drawn to you on the Uxbridge Road, after Ealing but before Southall. You were sitting there on a forecourt, your yellow paintwork caressed by the spring sunshine. I pulled over to catch a better look. With the steady stream of cars rushing by, it seemed that your pretty self was positively enhanced by these meagre comparisons. You had a black roof and that gave your sleek figure an allure that could only have existed in the Occident. I was smitten and slowly approached to where you waited.
That was the start of it. The fellow in the garage sales saw my look of attraction. He knew that he was no longer a salesman, but a matchmaker.
“She’s a lovely car,” he purred. “Might not be top of the range, but she can do the moves. Do you want to try her out?”
I most certainly did.