When did you last see a nice old car on the road? I can’t even remember. Of course there are reasons: it’s the wrong time of year and all the pubs are shut so you don’t even see those hardy souls who might normally venture out to a noggin ’n’ natter with their local car club.
But I think there’s something else going on: obviously we’re not allowed to go anywhere unless the journey is essential, yet there’s no rule determining what you might drive on such occasions. And in any other year I would often fire up some elderly crock of mine and wobble off to the supermarket even in winter, just to give it a run if there was not too much salt about. So why don’t I use an old car to, say, drop off some essentials at the in-laws? It’s because I fear being judged.
It’s ridiculous I know, and having spent so long convincing myself I really don’t care what others think of me, it’s disappointing to discover that, actually, I do. But if I saw some neighbour heading out in a classic car with a big grin smeared across their face, would I automatically assume that this was an imaginative way in which to conduct an entirely essential journey? Or would I in fact conclude that they were not taking this crisis seriously, were breaking the law and putting us all in danger? I can’t promise it wouldn’t be the latter. So the old dears stay in the shed.