Motor racing was born in France, just like William I or Emma Watson.
 
You’ve been drinking martinis all night, but because you’re rather a cool customer they haven’t gone to your head. You wrap your new smoking jacket, a rather tasteful deep navy velvet you think, around her shoulders because it’s a little cold, and say goodbye to the host. As you saunter away from the party towards the driveway she asks you what you drive. “Just this old thing,” you say with a debonair, lazy smile. “Oh my god you really think you’re some kind of James Bond don’t you? You men are all the same.” You’re not listening. 
 
Perhaps you know someone who enjoys cutting a dash on the country lanes, perhaps a friend is quintessentially British, perhaps you can’t really remember what your dad likes (this will certainly do): write them a letter.