I often look at Top Gear when they're driving these fast cars around the track and going "Wo-Ho-Ho-Ho!" at the acceleration and cornering and ****, and find myself thinking that must be quite fun. But then I immediately think what the hell use to me would one of those be. I can't take sacks of garden refuse down the tip in one. The dog wouldn't fit in the back. There's no room for Uber Minor, Uber Major and Little Miss Uber (OK, that's possibly an advantage) and it'd be crap over the myriad 'traffic calming' initiatives down our way. Oh, and I'd doubtless look a bit of a prick in one too. So the accountant in me rushes quickly to the fore and promptly tells me that something practical, like my A6 estate, is the best option.
So I'm not sure what I'd put in my fantasy garage, but I can tell you that my current garage is full to the rafters with: the running machine that Mrs Uber wanted for her fortieth five years ago, but has never used, four broken pallets that I was lumbered with after ordering pea shingle and bark mulch recently, three kids' bicycles that the little bastards never use because their mother drives them everywhere, a pile of cardboard boxes, each marked either Amazon or IKEA, that Mrs Uber conveniently forgot she'd dumped in there, bags full of empty Zinfandel bottles that Mrs Uber thinks float down to the bottle bank on their own, several bags full of general household refuse and unwanted toys that Mrs Uber also believe dispose of themselves, a lawn mower, a pasting table in the event we break 17 years of emulsion-festing and decide to wallpaper something, plus an assortment of storage boxes harbouring everything from old school books to Chinese immigrants.
I'd never get a car in there.
