A luxury roll through time
I am now reading repetitive stories about Rolls-Royce being “on a roll.”
OK, but back when family silverware came largely from the Automat, I actually reported my Day One excitement of owning a Rolls-Royce. By Day 10 — in the Coney Island Times, which was all I could scratch up to write in back then — I reported the total experience.
The car my husband bought? It quick laid down dead. A wheeze, a cough — and straight to Rolls-Royce heaven. Second greatest day? It stopped on a six-lane highway and Fords, Chevrolets, Volkswagens zoomed by yelling “Get a horse.”
Our salesman, so British that next to him King Charles sounds southern, said: “Merely a minor adjustment, Moddom.” One month’s minor adjustment later my husband clambered back in. Ignition off, nobody around and the rear windows moved by themselves. Both directional signals worked simultaneously. And the rear’s right-side makeup mirror light lit up the mahogany desk on the left side.
Also, air conditioning in January blasted from the heating unit. “Minor adjustment, Moddom,” oozed its salesman, whose headquarters probably still has my Coney Island Times review somewhere hidden in their vault.
Car had 99 probs, I wasn’t one
On a country road straightaway, late at night, no other car around, this Silver Shadow triumph got up to 5 miles to the gallon. In city traffic that fell off a little. “One does not purchase a Rolls for economy,” hummed the salesman peering at us as if to say, “If the pound hadn’t devalued, we wouldn’t even be doing business with the likes of you.”
High noon, on 57th and Madison, this white dream car — JA4 license plate — had a crowd around. Photos were taken of it. The hood was up. Smoke billowed from the engine. I got onto the first thing moving — a bus going uptown — and where I was headed was downtown.
Next a brake lining problem and reheating situation. Also the radio stopped, rear license plate holder fell off, the trunk locked — and the car stopped dead. IN TRAFFIC. But so chic that even when it couldn’t move we, the owners, surged with pride leaning against it to summon a cab.
They say the only thing that makes noise in a Rolls is the clock. Yeah. Unless you count the owner crying.
We hadn’t realized ours had possibly been one of the earliest Silver Shadow designs and was maybe even a used store model. Whatever. To tell you the truth, the thrill of owning even an asthmatic Rolls dies hard.
A HIGHLIGHT from Judge Judy’s scathing British press blast in case you missed it:
“Prince Harry writes William ‘recoiled’ from Meghan’s first hug. Biting the hand that fed him, he’s a selfish, spoiled, ungrateful disingenuous grandchild. I’d be furious and hurt if my child or grandchild did the same to me.”
Divorced Me-Me-Meghan dumped her father, castigated her former best friend, fought with everyone else, looked only to make money and get famous, and will eventually expend bodily fluid on Prince Empty as has his entire birthplace.
His name’s everywhere but on toilet paper. So . . . let’s . . . just . . . wait.
Meghan’s piggy bank will soon learn money can’t buy happiness. What it gets you is a richer class of estranged relatives.
Only in the UK, kids, only in the UK.