I like to clean.  I’ve never met anyone who can clean as well as I can.  Of course, there must be better cleaners out there.  After reading that English-born footballer David Beckham lines-up all the Coke can labels in his ‘fridge to face forwards, and only allows even numbers of cans, I reckon he’d be a worthy competitor in the rubber glove world cup.  But neither of us could hold a mop to Horacio Pagani.  After visiting his Modena Design factory, there’s no question that Pagani puts the “fast” in fastidious. 

It was one of those glorious English days: cold, dark, windy and damp. Confidence was not high; RF had dragged me to yet another industrial building in the middle of nowhere to check out yet another piece of automotive history: the Aston Martin DB5. As a woman raised in South Africa, the whole Bond thing had passed me by. Sure, I love Aston. The Vanquish is my number one all-time favorite car. But I'd driven enough classics to know that most of them are like male models: great to look at but incapable of a quick, intelligent conversation. And yet, there she was, and my God, she was beautiful.

I walked around the car a few times admiring its presence. The strange combination of its Volvo P1800-like rear end and bulldog nose, those perfect pipes and wire wheels, that rakish roofline– it all worked a treat. I was deeply smitten with the DB5, ready to fall in love. The interior kept the flame alive with its sweet-smelling leather and aircraft-style gauges. As always, RF had the first go. His real-time report warned me of the driving difficulties to follow. I told myself that his standards were too high; I wanted to like driving the DB as much as looking at it.

Word up young and financially fortunate pistonheads: don't be dissing minivan man. I know it's easy. It's easy to glance over from your hot hatch, company Bimmer or precious Porsche, see Mr. Mom sitting-up at the wheel of his minivan stuffed with car seats and kids, and snigger. Poor bastard, you think, he doesn't have a clue about cool. I'd rather drive a white Ford Fairline than that bread van. But you're mistaken. A) There's nothing lower than a Ford Fairline, and B) Minivan Man doesn't deserve your cardescension. In fact, there with the grace of God go you.

Morphing from pistonhead into Minivan Man (MVM) is a process, like grieving. At first, when the kids arrive, proto-MVM goes into denial. He hangs-on to his/his partner's two-door, or trades the sports car for a hot two-plus-two. He assures his partner that everything will be OK; the baby will fit in the back, no sweat. (Silently thinking, it's a baby, it'll never remember.) When the new father feels the brunt of his hormone-crazed wife's rage as she tries to maneuver a squealing child into the back, when he sees his precious litte angel in that dark, windowless space; he knows he's been beaten. He gets angry. Then he gets over it.