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I rang a girlfriend who pronounced the project psychologically disturbing after pointing out that my ex drove a Porsche. It was hopeless. There was no good reason to buy one.
So I had to settle for a bad reason. Happily, there were lots of those. If I buy a Porsche, younger men will find me irresistible; I don’t have children, and it is the solemn duty of childless people to keep the sports car industry going; you only live once; and why shouldn’t I have what I want? All really, really bad reasons and absolutely perfect for my purposes.
No sooner had I reconciled myself to being an insecure plonker in a car that, let’s face it, looks like a fat toad, than I was possessed by the urge to put on very high stiletto boots. The thought suddenly struck me that if I could have my twenties again I would wear much fancier shoes. What is happening to me?
‘You’re becoming shallow and selfish,’ said my friend Sarah. ‘I guess it’s just something you have to do.’
She is right. I am on an incredibly difficult journey. After my spiritual awakening in India I am coming back down to earth with a crash. I realise that, while I would love to wander around in long flowing clothes being nice to people, the reality of my existence as a sad singleton is that I just don’t get the opportunities to be unselfish. I need to stop moaning about this and bravely get on with making the best of being fantastically self-obsessed.
From now on, it’s going to be just me in my Porsche, in my high-heeled boots. So off I went to test-drive the lagoon green Carrera 4. It growled nicely as I revved the engine. Cocooned in the low-slung seats, I felt wonderfully cushioned in my own sad little world.
I mentally cocked a snook at no one in particular as I roared self-righteously up the hill to Sunningdale. There was a dodgy moment when I thought the brakes weren’t working until I realised I was pressing the accelerator at the same time. Once I got the hang of putting my feet on the right pedals it wasn’t hard being a boy racer at all. I started to relax and enjoy myself.
Then as I pulled out of a country lane into the main road a red sports car flew through the air past me. It happened in slow motion and took ages. The car flew and flew before it finally landed with a surreal-sounding smash and wrapped itself around a lamppost. Shattered glass flew like an intense shower of rain. It was quite beautiful, the pattern it made. Everything was in suspended animation. The driver’s side buckled entirely so the car ended up in a U shape as if it were hugging the pole.
The street was silent. Nobody stirred. Then people came running from everywhere. A man got out of the passenger side but the driver was obviously stuck. Everyone including me reached for their mobiles and dialled 999. After watching the rescue effort for a while, it was obvious there was nothing more I could do so I drove very slowly away.
Obviously, this was not what you would call a good omen. I think it probably means I should not even think about driving the Porsche wearing the high-heeled boots.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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