I cant remember where I heard this wonderful word
It sums up so perfectly something I felt as a teenager. When I dreamed of having a sports car
There used to be a showroom next to Nottingham railway station, through whose windows I could happily gaze for hours
I knew I wanted either a Triumph Spitfire or an MG Midget. Agonised over the choice of scarlet or bright lemon yellow
The only people who could truly aspire to one were the boys who rowed or played rugger & had generous daddies
Or sometimes daddies themselves. The sort who wore tweed jackets or old flying jackets & flat caps, & long woollen scarves. Had a moustache & smoked a pipe
Who, when they reached a certain age, proclaimed their menoporschal status to the world
It wasnt fair. Sporty cars should be driven by someone who is the right sex & age to look like Sandra Paul or Bronwen Pugh. Or at least can wear her hair wrapped fashionably in a head scarf with the long ends streaming behind as she speeds along
