Alfa Romeo is like a forgotten middle child
I remember my first Alfa Romeo very well, because I tried to eat it. It belonged to my father. I think it was a late 1970s Giulietta – I remember it as very square – and, in a Surrey street filled with Volvo estates, it marked us out as dangerous bohemians, though we were nothing of the sort. This is a car for people who want a romantic Italian car then, but don’t really, because romance is deadly But cars do this, among other things: they provide a feint, a life you seek. Perhaps I saw through it because I used to lean forward and chew the seats of my father’s Giulietta. Maybe I hated the car. Maybe I hated him. Maybe I wanted to have a Volvo estate. But I can still taste the leather, and I am sorry. Alfa Romeo is often forgotten, like a middle child.
