Our nephew Oliver came to visit.
"How long are you staying?" I asked.
"I haven't actually booked a return ticket," he confessed.
I wasn't too worried; Oliver's a deck hand on a megayacht, and the sedentary lifestyle of his aging aunt and uncle doesn't really fit with the adventures he enjoys in Monaco, St Barth's, and the other rich-and-famous ports he frequents. Still, there was something in Brussels that I thought might interest him, and give him a taste of what my life might have been under different circumstances: Bond in Motion.
Yes, the British Secret Service has allowed some of Q branch's greatest inventions out from their high-security storage, and they're on display at the Expo centre here. Even the rubbish ones, like Max Zorin's airship from A View To A Kill. More importantly, there are Aston Martins. LOTS of Aston Martins. I sauntered in a near-religious trance past these apotheoses of motoring beauty, wondering if anyone would comment on my uncanny resemblance to a young Sean Connery (surprisingly, no).
My nephew was disappointingly drawn to the newer cars, like the Superllegera, instead of the timeless DB5. I've always been an unashamed Timothy Dalton man, so the V8 Vantage is my choice. An untouchable distillation of mid-80s chic and (if my wife is reading) surprisingly affordable.
Sadly, Oliver left the next day. Something about a Ukrainian girl who lives in Cologne who wanted to see him. I don't ask too many questions about his jet-setting lifestyle, and settled myself back into the calm domestication of being a househusband.
Or maybe that's just my cover story.
License to...?
