When I was a child the richest person I knew was my godfather Uncle Raymond. He owned a flat in the prettiest street in Hampstead and the prettiest Palladian mansion in Weymouth. He looked like a Turkish pirate – his father was a market trader, his mother a descendant of the Chief Rabbi of Istanbul – but he was actually a Jewish City lawyer specialising in pension funds.
We were poor after that and had unreliable motorcars. In 1983, Ford Fiestas were not what they are now – but at least we had Uncle Raymond, who would drive us to his Palladian mansion in the BMW. I suspect he thought that a Mercedes-Benz was too whimsical for the Humphrey Bogart of pension funds. They fall too easily to prettiness, and the BMW is about power – specifically masculine power.
I forgot about the BMW, in the way that children do, until an 8 Series convertible was delivered last month. I have never considered a BMW for myself, as I see it as a masculine car – and expensive. It was deep black, and low, and muscular. It squatted by the fish works and quietly prowled the lanes. Initially I was slightly afraid of it: the BMW is so masculine; so functional; so German.