My good lady wife Lady Colonial destroyed our next door neighbour once over his personalised plate. He was one of those people who was always trying to outdo everyone else with the latest gadgets or fashion - ostentatious to the extreme. We were out in front of our home one Saturday when he and his wife (think Harry Enfield’s “considerably richer than you” couple) rolled up in his Mercedes with a personalised number plate (sadly, W@NK8R wasn’t permitted by the DVLA).
Him to Lady Colonial: “See my new number plate? See how they’re my initials?”
Her, thoroughly unimpressed by it but especially by him, ice hanging off her words: “I see it.”
At this point, I’m wise enough to see the warning signs and to just stand back and enjoy the show…
Him: “Isn’t that great? I love mine! You should get one too!”
Her: “Why?”
Him, somewhat flummoxed: “Why?”
”Yes - why?”
I could tell she was leading him into a trap, which was great because for once, it wasn’t me. Protip: Only marry a doctor of psychology if you’re smart enough to think before you say something stupid that gets analysed afterwards.
Him: “Because they’re great!”
”Why?”
”Well…. for one, because it makes it easier to find your car in a car park.”
Oh Lord, here we go…
Her, logic mode in full power: “Do you normally park in car parks full of silver Mercedes, making it difficult to easily identify which car is yours?”
”No, but…”
”Or is it that your memory is failing due to your advancing age, and you can’t recall registration numbers but you can remember your own initials?” Ouch!
”Well no of course not, it’s just that…”
”Do others call you by your initials to save time? Do they call you “GRS”? Because if they do, that would make it easier for them to find you on the road.”
”No…”
”Then why do you think I should have one? Because I don’t have any of those issues and if you don’t either, I fail to see the point.”
”Because they’re great!”
Her, looking thoughtful: “Hmmm - I see. Fascinating. I must go inside to study this in my books.” She then turned and went into the house, leaving him befuddled and me fighting not to smirk.
Him, to me: “What did she mean by that?”
Me: “I’m not qualified to answer that question, but if you pay her £90 an hour, she can help you answer it yourself.”