TVR, Lancia, Alfa, Fiat, Mercedes, Oldsmobile, R-R (Spur?), Jaguar, and others whose names have escaped, lined up in 90 degree glaring sunshine at the weekend.
And what about those mink trimmed goggles for back seat drivers of an open car? HowÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s that for style. And a superb rad-top mascot.
They were serried by a marshal, who, with typical Italian gesticulatory bella figura, naturally assumed that even one inch out of line amounted to an attempt at castration.
Within five minutes the members had filled their ice buckets at the nearest restaurant, owned by a familial acquaintance on the downside of the favour game, and the iced Martinis were flowing.
Nearest thing to a 75 was the disappearing 400 about two miles away. He was frightened off by the Triumph (different one to the Ã¢â‚¬â„¢showÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ one) and the Maserati next to it. Their drivers (yellow-trousered, pink over-the-shoulder-knitted-accessories, white shoes-no socks, and, curiously, considerably older than their passengers) were studiously nonchalant, casually awaiting their respective shoe-shopping and delightfully attractive very scantily clad very feminine close friends. Such nice, devout girls. (Whose candid but non-intrusive pic can be made available for a small compensatory fee).
Oh, yes, finally. That was the adventurous pigeon of questionable gender that took a chance in flying through the local custom paint shop. I kid you not, that is not photo-shopped. Who would have guessed it, Italian birds are fashion icons.