The 4 1/2 litre Bentley
“Geoffrey,” Angela shouted for the umpteenth time over the roar from the unsilenced exhaust of my classic four and a half litre Bentley as we drove from London to Aberystwyth in the usual light drizzle of the English summer. I knew what she wanted, she wanted to stop and put the hood up but I liked the feel of the wind in my hair. “Hush,” I said, “I think it is mis firing again.” “Ohhhhh!” she wailed as she always wailed, “You are impossible!” “It’s this damned pool petrol,” I said, “Damned rationing, it’s all right for lorries and the like but too low octane for the Bentley, keeps fouling the plugs, do you hear?” “No!” she snapped, “And why must you drive this, this, this relic!” “It’s not a relic, it’s a Bentley four …