There was a classic car rally in Aldeburgh today. Down where the ice-cream van is parked during the summer. The one Coochie Maltman used to deal from. I thought at first he might be a freemason, noticing the sideways-on handshakes going across the Mr Whippy counter. But, no, as Gerard explained, Coochie was your man if you wanted something buzzier with your cornet than a flake. 'And whatever the working class versions are of chopped pistachios or raspberry coulis, sweets.'
There was a Vauxhall Zephyr among the cars, like the one my dad used to own before his driving was legal, insured and under the limit. I thought how compact it was. Dad's had looked vast to my six-year-old self. And how primly it seemed to be sitting up on its wheels. Dad's had brooded languorously.
Car owners milled around thanking each other for coming and saying not to forget such and such a date in such and such a place for the next meet up. The numerical breakdown of specific models represented reminded me of the hierarchy in a ballet company. The many: the corps de ballet. The few: the soloists. The one: the prima ballerina assoluta. At the rally were many Morris Minors and Minis. There were fewer sports cars: a TR7, for example, or a Ford Mustang. And there was the one: a white 1960 Cadillac Eldorado Seville.
Was too in awe to take a pic of the one today...