Clarkson on Cars Read Online Free

supper for the eighth successive night.
    Or else he’s sitting back, eyes half closed and fingers steepled enjoying the strains of Beethoven on the mini compact disc system with twin cassette auto play reverse and solar powered volume knob. Oh, and it can play music too.
    This is usually located in the bottom drawer – a space which, in that bygone age before floppy discs (which I will not spell with a ‘k’) and cursors, was taken up with things called files.
    These stereos fascinate me. The smaller they are, the more expensive they are to buy. I don’t see what’s wrong with my simply enormous Rotel, Pioneer, Akai circa 1976 set up but evidently, it is miles too big – and judging by some of the prices these days, it didn’t cost enough either.
    Having said that though, I was staggered to see a Sinclair flat screen telly in a dusty corner of the Design Centre selling for just £99.95. As is the current vogue, the screen was the same size as your average sultana but the wiry bit round the back was encased in a washing machine-sized shell. No wonder old Clive had to sell out.
    Doubtless, he’ll soon come up with a television so small that you won’t be able to see it at all.
    When the days of invisible gadgetry are upon us, I may well take my place on the bandwagon and reap the benefits of being able to cover my desk with everything from a sunbed to a nuclear power station without my work space being pinched.
    At present though I have just three executive toys, not counting my telephone which is a straightforward British Telecom Ambassador and therefore doesn’t count.
    Behind the Citroen press release to my left is the Waterford Crystal aeroplane I was given for Christmas by someone I didn’t like very much until I found out it cost more than £50.
    Lost in the vicinity of a half-eaten packet of McVities dark chocolate biscuits – remember, I’m trying to give up smoking – and the designer-label notebook is a half-inch-high, hand-painted pig. Always have loved that.
    And occupying pride of place is my helicopter – a stunningly good toy made by Mattell in the 1970s and foolishly dropped from the line-up a couple of years back. Tough luck you can’t buy one these days.
    The machine, which is genuinely powered by its blades, is connected to a central command post by a wire and flies round in circles with a hook dangling underneath poised to pick up empty matchboxes and old Coke cans.
    Such precision flying requires 100 per cent Chuck Yeagerish concentration so, when I’m airborne, little thought is given to burnt suppers or indeed any of the rigours encountered in daily life.
    What lunchtime? What meeting? What Citroen press release?

Mobile Phones
    ‘Yes darling. I’ll pick you up at eight… No this time I promise… Well, I know, but last night was different… Yes, well the night before was different too… No, standing around on Fulham Broadway isn’t much fun… OK listen, if I’m late tonight, I’ll buy you dinner at San Lorenzo. Bye.’
    Gulp. I’ve got an appointment in Twickenham at six.
    San Lorenzo costs twenty quid a head and that’s without going bonkers on the port and brandy. Then there’s the taxi and they don’t take credit cards so I’ll have to get some money out and the banks are closed.
    Now, my autobank’s a dodgy little blighter. Sometimes it enjoys Gettyish generosity and will plunge wads of Harold Melvins into the recipient maulers but on other days, for no apparent reason, it’s tighter than a Scotsman on holiday in Yorkshire and won’t hand over so much as a damn penny.
    ‘I wouldn’t mind if the green screen was polite and said something like, ‘Sorry old chap but your overdraft’s a little excessive and it’d be more than my job’s worth to hand over the cash at the moment.’
    But ‘insufficient funds available’ is so terse; so final. And the queue behind, already exasperated by my inability to remember my code number on the first attempt, is reduced to a