I was sat in the front passenger seat of a tired top of the range BMW speeding through the beautiful chalk, beech and oak countryside of Oxfordshire. There were scratches and dents in the body work. The mileage was high.
The man by my side was born in a different era, a time when Roger Moore’s James Bond would have been an icon rather than a fun fantasy. This man believed that somewhere out there that 007 life existed. Despite all his efforts he had failed to find it. The broken man had only ever hoped his wife would admire him like a Bond girl. The shine soon wore off the trophy.
“You know,” he said to me, smoothing his ‘Bondesque’ blacked and Brylcreamed hair, “there was a time when it was just open road ahead of me and I could do no wrong. I was motoring and it seemed to me then that all the lights were green…”
