21 Jun 06
I've been called a lot of things over the years, but I don't think the challenge to the marital status of my parents at the time of my birth was ever more forcefully presented that when a friend rang out of the blue to discover I was at the wheel of a Bentley Azure. On the shores of Lake Como. On my way to St Moritz. He paused as if to gather steam and then gave full vent to his emotions. All he actually said was 'You bastard' but did it with an emotion that the entire Monty Python team in full hyperbolic overdrive would have struggled to match.
This puzzled me. I could see how the concept of driving a brand new £222,500 convertible Bentley from one of the most glamorous venues in Europe to another must have seemed more than a little appealing, but to him it was clearly on a level with winning the lottery, finding the secret to eternal life or being stalked by Uma Thurman.
And it was then that I realised that it was not just my chum who had failed to get things into perspective, but me too. On that drive I was much more frustrated by the narrow roads and heavy traffic than I was romanced by my surroundings. To me it was like opening a bottle of '66 Latour and being allowed only to smell its contents. And when I explained the source of my irritation, he modified his view of me to 'spoilt, graceless bastard' and rang off.
