A secret love of mine, after lipstick, tea and lace dresses, is motors. Mini cars to be precise. I am a little car geek at heart and just adore swooning over anything shiny and sporting the iconic mini badge. My love halts at mere admiration and I am not proposing I can willy-nil-lily purchase a car like I purchase lipstick.
It was after catching glimpses of The Italian Job, Christmas circa 2006, that I decided I was destined to motor one of these darlings around and sourced myself this little gem decked out sufficiently to make even Michael Caine proud of its classic resonance.
You spy the fluffy dice?
I loved this car dearly, it was the perfect, fun form of transportation I was harbouring after. Four merry, tooting-terrific years we spent together, through the bumpy times and rocky moments, icy corners and sun-striken streets, we were inseparable. Four years on, and although my adoration for the mini had only but blossomed amply, I fancied a change.
Yesterday, I became the proud owner of Bertie. A beautiful, new, classic addition to my mini adventure. This car was firstly a cloud of romanticised imagery in my head, before he was immortalised into my very own motor a month later. The fabulous thing about minis are their sheer brilliance and ability to encapsulate a character, feeling or inspiration and the sky is the limit with the design and features. I had this idealised picture-postcard image in my head of picnic hampers, capri pants and a headscarf flimsily being teased in the wind, cocooned by the smell of cracked brown leather seats.
Needless to say, this weekend will predominately be festooned with any excuse to take an excursion out in my new jalopy, just with the open roads and my chihuahua car freshener for company! Bliss.