I have, for as long as I can remember, loved the sight, sound and smell of a fast car. Some years ago, my very lovely husband, for a birthday treat, bought me a day's driving at Silverstone (home of the British Grand Prix). I cannot even begin to explain the thrill of driving first a Lotus, and then a Ferrari around the racing circuit. It was, without doubt the best birthday present ever.
Earlier this year, for another rather big birthday, Philip repeated his act of kindness and bought us tickets for the British Grand Prix in July. I am ridiculously excited, even though it's still six weeks away. When I tell you that he doesn't drive himself, needs to wear earplugs to escape the noise of the race cars, and finds Grand Prixs the least entertaining sport on the planet, you will appreciate the scale of his magnaminity. Perhaps it's love.
To keep my childish excitement at a containable level, I have been trying to occupy my mind with other pursuits. Below is a version of a poem I wrote some time ago when I was practising alliteration. It is my own homage to the symbol of the prancing horse.
I listened, lusted, longed for
the throbbing thrusty roar.
Three hundred horse power hammering home,
no music moved me more.
I joined, with jade-eyed jealousy
The Tifosi's swelling ranks
Saw seductive, screaming scarlet
through the swirling yellow flags.
Never wearied then of waiting,
wasteful, wistful hours and days
while you haunted, taunted thrilled and chilled me -