There's a homeless man sitting on the bench the on other side of the road. I'm sitting here, in a frightfully well-to-do part of Westminster, in a Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG coupé. I'm sitting on a startlingly comfortable leather recliner, listening to BBC 6 through the Harmon Kardon augmented hifi, and drinking occasionally from a bottle of Tropicana Orange juice. I feel slightly guilty in admitting that, right now, my life is probably a little more rewarding than his.
It's been a slightly strange evening, actually. As you know, the cars I drive are ridiculously diverse; I'd usually be spending my evening in a car worth about one eightieth the value of this one. But tonight, and tonight only, I get to act out my overprivelaged douchebag fantasies.
