This must have been around 1969. John’s pride and joy was a magnificent Jaguar Mk 2. The 2.4 engine I think. Deep black like its namesake with gleaming chrome embellishments.

One evening he took us out for a spin. We sat on the sumptuous rear leather seats, sliding around slightly as we took the corners. I remember him explaining about the twin fuel tanks which he could switch from the dashboard. Of course, quite necessary on a thirsty beast like this. The array of dials and switches reminded me of an aircraft, glowing in the dark under the blue night light. We drove out to Stockbridge along the windy country roads and then onto the arrow straight Roman road towards Sutton Scotney. The car gently accelerated and took the crests and troughs with the sensation of a roller coaster. This was certainly better than mums little Mini.

On the way back he was more determined. The road was clear, the headlights pieced the darkness ahead for miles. The straight road reaching out to the horizon. The purr of the engine intensified and the speed slowly built. He finally announced “the ton” as if we’ve just reached Mach 1. Going over the brow of a hill, I felt lighter on my seat, it was if the car was preparing for take-off.

Although he also enjoyed the later Opel Commodore, I don’t think he loved it as much as his old Jag.