THE DB9

I saw an Aston Martin DB9 pull out of a side road on the business park today. I was walking back from lunch, swinging my umbrella and thinking up a word puzzle, when its sleek nose edged out past me.

I'm not a petrol-head. I don't much care about the shape of cars or the speeds they can reach. They're useful of course, and I have one - but sometimes I'd really rather walk.

However, I do appreciate the sheer beauty of a car like an Aston Martin DB9. Its shapely curves and smooth exterior almost shimmered as it glided by. It was black, polished to perfection and glistening in the afternoon sun. It had a personal number plate as well, T1 ROB. Good on you, Rob, I thought, smiling.

But it seemed that Rob wasn't all that happy in the driving seat of his shiny DB9. His eyes were sunk behind his glasses and his mouth had that miserable downturn of a man who's thoroughly fed up with life. I smiled at him through the driver's side window. He scowled back.

I ambled down the road, back to the office, while the trees rustled in the summer breeze and the fountain gently cascaded into the lake. I wonder which of us is the wealthier, I thought to myself.