When I was young, slim and foolish, there was this man I really wanted to impress. If I met him now I would dismiss him as pompous, bloated idiot with an IQ level in single figures but way back then all I could see was a handsome guy with a big grin and a Porsche. His parents had a weekend home in the New Forest in southern England, “just a little cottage” with about 20 acres and a mile of beach frontage and more en suite bathrooms than I’d had hot dinners in a week.
After we had driven down from London on a Friday night in the aforementioned Porsche and endured his father’s anecdotes about the insurance industry for three painful hours over dinner, I awoke the next day [Continue reading]
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