Ashes to ashes, rust to rust

LIKE any Mr Right who's been cooped up at home for weeks and hasn't murdered anyone, I've figured out the simple secret to a harmonious marriage: never let your wife see your Internet browser history.

Hunched over my laptop in the study for hours on end, who can blame me for giving in to the wildest fantasies that every middle-aged man secretly harbours? Mrs Always Right actually already knows about the ones involving whipped cream and a certain someone I won't name (ok, it's Cobie Smulders), so what I'm really terrified of is that she'll come across my searches for "classic Mercedes prices" or "1985 Ferrari 308 for sale".

Sooner or later, every true car enthusiast's fancy turns to thoughts of owning a classic car, usually the ones in the posters he put up on his bedroom walls as a boy. But there's nothing like a pandemic to make everything you stacked into a tall tower on the "someday" tray suddenly teeter over onto your lap.