When I was a little boy, my Dad travelled all week, flogging timber and tea cosies to businesses that needed things like that. But it was OK because, on a Friday night, he'd always arrive home with a new car.
He'd sneak up to my bedroom, and present me with it, in its little box and I would squirm with unbridled pleasure, no matter what it was. I especially liked the Buick Riviera because it would flash its lights when you put your finger over a prism in the back window. But then I also liked the Alfa Romeo Scarabeo because it wasn't really a car at all. It was a miniaturised three-dimensional incarnation of an Alfa designer's idle doodle. It was a concept car. It was orange, and to a small boy in South Yorkshire, it was impossibly exotic.
These Dinky and Corgi cars used to cost five shillings and six pence which is 27.5p in modern money. That meant they were not only the perfectly priced gift for my hard-up Dad but also, if I saved hard enough, something I could buy from time to time with my pocket money.
Over the years, I had hundreds and I would play with them constantly. I would make race tracks for them, paint them new and exciting colours with my collection of Humbrol paint, remove their tyres, stage massive accidents on the landing and occasionally, lift their bonnets to gaze in wonder at what I now know to be ‘the engine'.
Often though, I would simply take them to bed and look at them. There was the Alfa P33 Pininfarina with a gold roof spoiler, a Hillman Imp police car, a Toyota 2000GT, a Camaro with black stripes... and don't worry I'm not doing any of this from memory. I cherished my collection so feverishly that I still have it today. It's in my office and I'm looking at it right now.
There are many bashes and scrapes, and the Citroen DS estate was obviously painted in a bad temper. After my sister punctured my space hopper, perhaps. But each mark, each chip, each outlandish paint job marks these cars as mine.
Of course, at this point, people like James May like to step in and say, "Ooh, if you'd left them all in their boxes, they'd be worth a fortune by now." This is true. But how mealy would your mouth have to be to say: "Gee Dad. Thanks for this Citroen coupe. I'm going to put it away because in many years to come, it might be worth £25"?
‘I want rugs in burnt orange. And I see no reason why there shouldn’t be a rack in the boot for storing my AK-47’
It's the same story with the albums I had. All the covers have been defaced and there are many scratches on the records themselves. And it's the same story with wine. What is the point of buying a case when you have absolutely no intention of drinking it? And paintings. Rembrandt didn't create his masterpieces so that someone could keep them in a safe. The very idea is insane.
On this basis, you'll already have guessed my view on those who own cars, but don't drive them.
Of course, it would be a tragedy if a terrible accident were to befall a Bugatti Royale or Ferrari 250 GTO. But if you go through life fearful of unforeseen events, you'd never get out of bed. Cars must be driven. It's why they were built.
But here's the biggie. Should they be modified? Or should they be kept as they were when they left the factory?
I think when it comes to very rare cars, the answer is: leave them alone. They are cars, yes, but they are also pieces of history and future generations must have a chance to see what they looked like when they were new.
However, with less rare cars, the answer is an emphatic no. I once drove an Eagle E-type round Europe and because it had been uprated with better brakes and better cooling, it didn't explode every time the sun came out or hit a wall every time I tried to slow down.
The fact of the matter is simple. If you're going to drive an E-type in this day and age, why not make it more modern under the skin? Because let's be honest, it's the skin you bought it for.
And actually, Eagle proved recently that even this can be improved. They made a one-off rebodied E-type for a Canadian customer and I have to say, it's just about the best-looking machine I've ever seen.
This brings me on to my Mercedes Grosser. It's a handsome car of course, but could it be better? Perhaps with the addition of a spoiler or a flat nose front? I think, on balance, maybe no, but inside... that's a different story.
At present, it's completely original, which means it smells of the Egyptian who used to own it back in the Sixties. And the businessmen who've been in there since. The wood is getting faded. The driver's seat has sort of collapsed - actually, that's not true. It hasn't sort of collapsed. It has completely collapsed. And it has a cassette player, which would be fine if I still had my collection of tapes. But all I have left is a soft-rock medley from the Nineties. And I really don't like Foreigner.
I feel then that the interior should receive some work but here's the - probably literal - million-dollar question: should it be faithfully restored to how it was? Or should I begin again?
Because to enjoy driving this car more than I enjoy driving it now, it should have iPod connectivity and a built-in telephone. It should also have satellite-navigation and all of this is perfectly possible for as little as £2 billion. It's not the toys I worry about though, because they'll just go wrong anyway. No. It's the rest.
You see, I harbour a dream of replacing the two front seats with something a bit more snazzy. Some AMG buckets would be good, finished in olive green. I think these would go well with the sage exterior. I want thick lambs-wool rugs too, in burnt orange and I want the drinks cabinet retrimming so that there's space inside for more shot glasses. Also, I see no reason why there shouldn't be a rack built into the bootlid where I can store my AK-47.
Here's the problem though. When I want to buy some new lights or carpets for my house, there are thousands and thousands of pleasant and slim middle-aged ladies who will come round with swatches and contacts at little furniture places you've never heard of in Spain. They tell you about things you never even dreamed of, of window fittings to blow your minds - and would you like those roof lights to be electrically operated. Then they go home thinking impure thoughts about Kevin McCloud.
But there are, so far as I can see, no interior designers for cars. Sure, there are places under arches where elderly men restore old cars with a painstaking but pointless diligence. Because when finished, the poor things will be locked away in a hermetically sealed box.
If I were to approach one of these old boys and ask for olive green racing seats to be fitted to a 1969 Mercedes Grosser, they'd have a heart attack. Shortly after pointing out that you can't get olive green racing seats.
Why can't you? Why isn't there a thriving business in aftermarket car interior upgrades? There should be.
Because in the coming months, the treasury estimates that 1.3 million people will lose their jobs. If I'm one of them, I shall certainly be considering setting up such a thing. And if I'm not, I certainly hope you do. Because I'm desperate for someone to do a full dinky-car personalisation number on my Merc. And I'm convinced I'm not the only one.
Think about it. We spend billions making our cars ride lower, and go faster and go round corners more quickly. But almost nothing on making them a nicer place to sit. And in jammed-up Britain, that's surely more important.
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