You know that thing where you’re stuck in evening traffic on the Quays and your brain just… alt-tabs into a better life? Mine goes straight to cars. Not sensible ones, obviously. The ridiculous, slightly-impractical, wildly-specific ones that match various versions of my personality from “responsible product designer” to “mysterious writer vanishing to the west coast forever”. Here’s my little garage of daydreams – the ones I mentally test-drive between pint and last bus home.
Looks like it has a proper job but absolutely does not behave like it. Small enough for tight parking, quick enough to make the M50 mildly tolerable. My inner grown-up and inner goblin finally agree on something.
The energy of a librarian who’s seen some things. Boxy, safe, unbothered by trends. Also feels like the perfect car to hide a chaotic creative life in the boot under four very respectable reusable bags.
The “treat yourself” car. Zero practicality, max serotonin. Roof down on a random Tuesday, pretending the N11 is the Amalfi Coast. Terrible for Ikea runs, brilliant for mental health.
Looks like it could drive through a stone wall and then help rebuild it. Bumpy, loud, probably leaks a bit, but gives strong escape-to-the-countryside-with-a-dog energy. I do not own a dog. Yet.
The logical choice my job thinks I should make. Screens, graphs, range anxiety as a feature. Feels less like driving and more like piloting an app – which is either very cool or deeply unsettling depending on caffeine levels.
If spreadsheets ever pay off, this is the midlife crisis I’m pre-booking. Subtle-ish, curvy, makes a lovely noise. Park it anywhere and suddenly every errand is a cinematic side-quest.
Basically a tin can on wheels with big cottage-core energy. Not fast, not fancy, but it turns every trip for milk into a whimsical French indie film. My hair would look awful in the wind and I still want one.
TheLysts
