Confessions of a closet leadfoot

January 4th 2010

Seeing me in my day-to-day persona of tribal mother, working woman and sensible multipurpose Tarago driver, you might not realise that buried underneath my mild mannered exterior beats a fuel injected V8. I have recently come to a greater understanding about this part of my makeup thanks to Messrs Clarkson, May and Hammond. After looking for something ease the mind numbing boredom of Boxing Day, I stumbled across the Top Gear marathon on the discovery channel, and I knew instantly that I had found my spiritual home. I watched enthralled as Clarkson et al drove semitrailers through brick walls at high speed, road tested american muscle cars and attempted to drive from Basel to Blackpool (Switzerland to the West Coast of England) on a single tank of fuel. I tallied times for "Star in a reasonably priced car" as if the future of the planet was balanced on whether Michael Parkinson or Kevin McLeod had the faster lap time. I was in my happy place, complete with diesel fumes and all leather upholstery. Until the next day, when FF refused to let me ripsnort the 'Rago round the back end of the Target carpark to see if I could match the Stig's lap time in a Lotus Elise. Guess it's a chick thing.