Walking along the edge of the Bristol Downs at sunset one evening last month, I crossed the road to walk along the pavement passing a series of fine houses. As I walked, a car drew up at the roadside ahead of me. The driver, a striking young man in his late twenties, dark-haired and wearing an open-necked shirt and immaculate trousers stepped out of the left-hand drive car and went around to open the passenger door at the pavement side. His companion for the evening, a brunette with sunglasses on the top of her head, came out of one of the houses and gave him a peck on the cheek before elegantly reclining into the car.
The car was a yellow Ferrari convertible. Don’t ask me the model; I haven’t a clue about such things. It was a picture of perfection. Here was wealth and style and elegance and sophistication I could never dream of.
Stoically facing up to my complete failure in life to attain suaveness, affluence or cosmopolitanism, I re-crossed the Downs. Parked at the roadside as I headed towards the setting sun, I saw the car that was much closer to my station in life â a green Morris 1000 Traveller.
I always associated Morris Minors with clergymen. Since reading Sally Vickers book, âMr Golightly’s Holidayâ?, I have come to associate Morris 1000 Travellers with God himself.
Why the association between clergy and Morris Minors? Why did Sally Vickers choose a Morris 1000 Traveller for her main character? I don’t know.
Perhaps old green Morrises are a reminder of the complete failure of middle of the road Anglicans to come to terms with the age in which we live; we have become as obsolete as the cars. Perhaps also they speak of an attempt to be gentle and humble and not threatening in an age when self-promotion, image consciousness and aggressiveness are marks of success and gain you respect.
What would Jesus drive? A yellow Ferrari or a green Morris?