Once upon a time — well, twenty-seven years ago in 1990 to be precise — I owned a perfectly ordinary Jaguar XJS V12 Coupé. My life changed the day I took it to Maidenhead for a service.
Walking back through the showroom to my waiting lift, I passed an XJ-SC Cabriolet. It was gleaming, purposeful, and I fell in love within seconds. It was a 1987 model with just 900 miles on the clock, rear seats suitable for my very small children, and a prominent roll bar which I confidently pretended would protect them.
“Part of a wealthy Midlands man’s collection,” the salesman told me — possibly true, I thought, given the registration number: ORM 1.
I informed the lucky dealer that I never wished to see my about-to-be-serviced XJS Coupé again. I wanted to leave immediately with my new love. A deal was struck, my TWR steering wheel was swapped over (I’m too chunky to manage a conventional one), and I was away.
I was always led to believe that only sixty-seven r
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