And the last time I sold a car I know for a fact I received a premium for it because it was essentially in the same condition as when it rolled out of the showroom 25 years earlier.

I suppose the car-modification enthusiasts will tell you that they’re individualising their cars, that the bits they add and the weirdness they give expression to is an extension of their very own personalities. That may be the case, but if it is, some of them are clearly experience psychotic episodes on a fairly regular basis. I suspect that deep down they’re also the kind of people – let’s face it, they’re almost always men – who will marry a girl and tell her they love her, and then insist she get a boob job or have botox or liposuction to ensure she conforms to some male concept of the “ideal” female.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it; but maybe some women feel obligated to be the human equivalent of a blue flashing Aventador driven by an arrested adolescent with mother issues.

I can attest that were The Companion to express such sentiments then he’d fairly assuredly be in need of some cosmetic work himself. Dentistry, principally.