I’m not sure why people are surprised when they find out that I’m interested in cars given that I always have been. As a child I would drool over the latest Corgi and Dinky models at the toy counter at Woolworths in Abergavenny, pondering which one to save up for. I discovered motoring journalism at the age of twelve and an annual subscription to CAR magazine became my Christmas essential (its fabulous photography was down to its art editor, Wendy Harrop, who would go on to make Interiors magazine, later The World of Interiors, into such a stylefest). Nothing excited me more as a teenager than going to the London Motor Show with my father, grabbing every brochure I could lay my hands on. I would spend the following weeks poring over every page and made lists of their dimensions as though this was a vital detail. (Over to you, Sigmund.)

Mention an enthusiasm for cars and to some it’s as though you’ve said you love kettles or can’t get enough of toaster design. So I’ve learned to keep schtum, just as I did about my love of soundtrack music (before – last laugh – everyone realised film music was often amazing). My interest in cars was always design-focussed, regardless of whether it was a basic runabout or something more premium. I wasn’t a rev head, itching to burn rubber. In fact I was never fascinated by supercars or cars modified for the race or rally track. It’s rather like my interest in well-designed ordinary houses rather than money-no-object mansions. I enjoy the development and implementation of clever ideas and the ways a design ethos is incorporated within a brand.

And yet, deep down, I dreamed of driving something that was just plain fun. It was about the driving pleasure, not about being seen (I see someone driving, say, a lime-green Lamborghini and wonder how on earth they can bear everyone looking at them, which probably misses the point).  I dallied with a moderately sporty car when I was thirty, an Alfa Romeo Sprint. I wanted something that would match my move into self-employment and mirror my aspirations, and it did that perfectly, disintegrating before my eyes, just like my imploding career.

After moving to Australia, the cars we bought were all about practicality rather than style. Big, sensible wagons, mainly, in which we could camp and carry lots of stuff. I loved the Saab estate, though, in dark green with buttery leather seats and lots of walnut, but it was still more sedate than sporty. The hankering for something a bit more exciting remained.

I promised myself that whenever we moved to Cloverdale I would get myself a convertible. Specifically a 1980s Mercedes SL convertible. But as time slipped by and we didn’t make the move, the price of those lovely old Mercs rose out of reach. When eventually we did move it was during a prolonged period of flooding rain and the idea of buying something low-slung and sporty seemed ludicrous. I also realised that the sun, even in winter, is more savage here than in Sydney and I wondered how often I’d really drop the hood on a convertible. I may have wished I was driving something more exciting as I trundled along in our sensible SUV but I could feel my dream evaporating like my old Alfa’s bodywork. I told myself that our second car needed to be practical, a pick-up truck, or ute, as we call them in Australia. Nothing sporty and none of that dream nonsense. Something suited to our potholed roads and narrow, winding lanes.

I almost convinced myself but then I saw exactly what I wanted and thought: sod it, I’m having that. And so, for the past six months I’ve been zipping around in an old Audi TT coupe and loving it. I’ve liked the TT ever since its audacious arrival in 1998. It was an instant classic, based on Bauhaus principles, the motoring press said, probably not knowing what that meant, but it was certainly different. A slinkier model followed, which I liked even more, and that’s the one I bought. Driving it actually puts a smile on my face and I’ve even become quite adept at getting into and out of it without looking like a total idiot. And yes, it’s fun. I’m sure a little imp sits on my shoulder every time I drive it, muttering into my ear: go on, a bit faster, go on.

It’s only an ageing sportscar but so far as I’m concerned, one of my dreams has come true. And that’s really what it’s about. Some dreams will always remain precisely that but some you can achieve. Sometimes they’re not the dream you thought they were and didn’t live up to expectations. Is that it? There can be a sense of now what? Perhaps we need to hold some dreams aloft and afar, giving us purpose.

Accomplishing this one, after so long, feels just right. It’s not a big deal, really. I mean, it hasn’t changed my life, and it cost less than renovating a bathroom. It’s only a bloody car, after all. But golly, when you get something you’ve always wanted then you can feel on top of the world. Some of that comes from not making the sensible decision but going with the heart’s desire. Boring kettles and toasters I can live with but life’s too short for boring cars.

What dream(s) have you achieved?