Changing Gear

This month Olly Mann inherits a family heirloom, and learns a lesson in letting go.

I own a sports car. If you knew me, this might strike you as unlikely. Yet I do. It’s a 2004 SLK350, and I inherited it from my father when he died—suddenly and unexpectedly—in February. So, by the time we were properly dismantling his estate it was summer, and, among the sadness and tedium of closing down his bank accounts, chucking away his cosmetics and donating his shoes to the charity shop, it was a real treat to take his car out for a spin, the roof down and the wind blowing through my hair.

I’d never even been in this car before, I guess because it’s a two-seater. Whenever Dad drove me somewhere, he’d bring the whole family along, so we always went in his Land Rover. But as I finally climbed into his Mercedes, settled into its heated leather seats, flicked on the radio (preset to Smooth) and opened the glove box (full of disposable contact lenses and toothpicks), I felt Dad was with me. I decided, right then, that I couldn’t sell it.