Regular readers will know I have spent the past few years championing the BMW E30, better known as the 3-Series of the late 80s and early 90s. Cracking little cars. I like them so much I bought two - the nippy little two-door Bavarian Princess and an estate called Homer for my better half.
There was a time, not so long ago, a well-preserved E30 was something of a novelty in Ireland. Owners would tip the hat in passing, acknowledging each other's impeccable taste and eye for a bargain. Those glory days are over. They're now so commonplace you'd get a hernia from the contortions required to keep saluting the E30-driving hordes.
Possessing, as I do, an aversion to convention, I recently began tentative steps out of the E30 zone. I went searching for a classic. I'd always eyed vintage car drivers with suspicion. They were either utterly loaded or unbelievably anal. I imaged them spending their Sundays rolling around on piles of banknotes or fussing obsessively about their chrome fittings with a toothbrush and a tin of Silvo. (Now that I am one of them, I realise you don't have to be the former, and I have no intention of becoming the latter. Fingers crossed.)
I soon found myself drooling over old Beemers on specialist websites. I quickly decided I'd only ever be content once I had a mint 3.0 CSL parked outside my house. Sadly, my bank manager didn't agree. He had a point; €20,000-odd for a 35-year-old car that I'd be too scared to drive is a tad excessive in anyone's books, least of all mine.
I became resigned to reality and I convinced myself to be content with the Princess. She never broke down, wasn't too thirsty and I loved her to bits. We had something, the Princess and I. But then I saw her. My eyes met her headlamps across the computer monitor. She gazed longingly at me from the Interweb, beseeching me to make her mine. All those precious memories of the Princess were instantly erased, discarded like yesterday's newspapers.
She was divine, a lovingly-restored 1975 BMW 1602, upgraded with a 2-litre engine and five-speed gearbox. Classy, easily maintained, an ideal daily driver. And, most importantly, cheap. Sure, I'd be mad not to. Wouldn't I?
It all happened very quickly. The Princess's previous owner, who'd regretted ever selling her, was contacted. He didn't have to be asked twice. The cheque was written before he'd finished reading my text.
Bank, insurance company, wife were consulted. Go-ahead was received. A few e-mails to aficionado friends in Dublin, a couple of phone calls to the seller in Edinburgh, checks done, flights, ferries booked, and I was off to pick her up.
I was smitten at first sight. The seller evidently adored her too, didn't want her to go. I almost felt guilty taking her off him. Almost. A more elegant, more sedate beastie than the Princess, I decided to call her the Duchess. We tootled happily home to Dublin, taking our time to get to know each other.
I quickly deduced that if the Princess had prompted the boy racer scratching under the surface of my psyche to rear his ugly head at times, the Duchess had the opposite effect.
She slapped my inner speed monkey round the chops with an embroidered slipper while simultaneously opening the door in my subconscious behind which my Old Fogey lurks. He came out with a splutter, grumbled a bit about a lack of respect and settled into a steady 80 km/h all the way home.
I don't feel too bad about kissing the Princess goodbye. I know she'll be well cared for. Just in case, I secured visiting rights as part of the deal.
We make odd bedfellows, the Duchess and I. I am jumpy as a hare with crabs at the best of times, whereas she is as calm and gentle as a cloud floating in the summer sky. I think we'll be very happy together.
