Silverspirit

Have you ever imagined what it would be like to own one of the world's best-known status symbols? Have you wondered how other people would react to what is, after all, a fairly clear example of conspicuous consumption?

When I asked Richard Charlesworth, Rolls-Royce's Press Officer, if I could borrow one of his shiny new motor-cars to find out, he was smarting slightly from just having lost one of the newest and most expensive cars the Company builds - the �215,000 Bentley Azure - which was pinched from under his nose on a publicity trip in Italy (since recovered, I am pleased to say). Despite this, however, he agreed to let me borrow a Rolls-Royce Silver Spur, to emulate Walter Mitty by imagining that owning a car like this is just part of everyday life.

The first, overpowering, impression is one of opulence. This is not a mere car. This is a drawing-room on wheels. I sink into enormous leather arm-chairs reminiscent of the smoking-room af a gentlemen's club in St. James's, rest my feet on thick sheepskin rugs and am surrounded by acres of cream hide and highly polished walnut, set off by deeply chromed fittings. There is hardly any plastic in sight.

There may not be quite enough room for a butler (unless there are only two passengers, in which case he can sit in front next to the chauffeur), but this drawing-room has every labour-saving device designed to make one unnecessary. The windows, naturally, glide up and down at the touch of a button. The seats adjust in every conceivable direction, again by electrics, remembering exactly how I (and up to three other people) like them. Ditto the mirrors. There is even an ejector seat - or so I thought, until I realised that Flossie (our Norfolk Terrier) had just planted both front paws firmly on the seat-up button. Nor do I need a Punkah-wallah to preserve my sang-froid. Positively the most brilliant air-conditioning system ever fitted to a motor-car, keeps my feet warm and my face cool (or vice-versa), no matter what the weather is doing - I just dial in the temperatures (plural) and it does the rest.

Although I have the long-wheelbase (the extra five inches cost �3,000 each) Silver Spur model,
designed especially for the owner who travels in the back (both rear seats are electrically adjustable and walnut-veneered picnic tables are set into the front seat-backs. There are even dinky little vanity mirrors, with walnut surrounds, set into the rear pillars and individual reading lights), I eschew the luxury of a chauffeur in favour of finding out what the car is like to drive. I soon discover that he, too, is redundant. One of the smoothest automatic gearboxes it has ever been my pleasure to use, takes care of the task of gear-changing for me. Cruise-control eases the strain on my right foot, which is further reduced by immensely powerful brakes, with ABS. The power steering is finger-light, but very precise. Driving this car requires no more effort than it takes to think about it.

I am a welcome visitor at every fuel station - at around 15 miles to the gallon, this car is definitely not politically correct (although she does use unleaded fuel) and the twenty-four gallon tank costs well over �50 to fill.

Although this automotive leviathan weighs in at around two and a half tons, almost seven litres of V8 engine under the bonnet (which is surmounted, of course, by the famous Silver Lady, who, for safety reasons, instantly disappears into the recesses of the traditional palladian-style radiator shell, should she be struck - who could possibly do such an ungentlemanly act?), means that there is power in abundance to propel me and my guests along at speeds which would impress most hot-hatchback owners. The rate of travel, however, is never obvious. I just waft along in near silence, with the occasional muted whoosh as I floor the accelerator and scatter a few more peasants into the hedgerows. Never have I felt more like Mr. Toad in my life!

Back to reality for an instant, I need some groceries. Were I a real Rolls-Royce owner, I should
probably head straight to Fortnum's for foie gras and champagne. In my case, however, the
supermarket beckons - how will the "Roller" (an epithet which the Company hates) go down in Tesco's car park?

Unlike Fortnum's, Tesco in Swindon has no uniformed doorman, so I cannot toss him the keys, with a "park it for me, would you, my good man", or whatever Rolls-Royce owners usually say. I try this on a passing sales assistant, struggling with a column of trolleys, but evidently he is a good socialist - even if his language is blue. Parking it outside the front door is greeted with "You can't leave it there, Guv'nor. You'll have to go in the car park like the rest" and a self-satisfied smile. So much for the myth.

Standing a few places behind two elderly ladies in the check-out queue, I overhear their conversation. "Did you see that beautiful Rolls-Royce in the car-park, Gladwys? Now that's what I call a proper motor-car", said one, the wonderful rolling Rs betraying her origins. "Too true, dear, but I bet he's married", replies her friend, wistfully.

On returning with the bags of assorted goodies, there is a gaggle of shoppers collected around the car. "I'm glad I don't have his fuel bill", I hear one man say. "Yes, but he probably has a bank
balance to match", replies another. I do not disillusion them. I wander up as nonchalantly as
possible, wearing my best bloated plutocrat expression, trying to pretend that the tins of beans I have bought in fact contain potted lobster. "Some motor, chief. I bet she cost you a few bob", says one admirer. I mutter "about a hundred and twenty, actually, give or take a grand or two" and climb aboard (you don't get down into a Rolls, like you do into most cars). "They don't make cars like that any more", says another observer, which seems quite natural - yet obviously absurd, given the car's current registration.

For my next port of call, I decide on somewhere more in keeping with the Rolls' image - somewhere where she might feel at home, even if I don't. I feel indescribably smug as I sweep majestically up the drive at Lord Bath's stately pad in rural Wiltshire, Longleat. Ignoring the exhortations to turn off to the car park, I continue round to the front of the house itself, where I leave the car beside a sign which bears the legend "no parking". Getting under the skin of the part now, I march confidently towards the door. An emerging guide says "Good morning, sir", as I approach. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her for you". My faith is restored - the peasants are not revolting, after all.

Later on, at The Wheatsheaf in Lower Woodford, where the car-park is full to overflowing with
lunch-time trade, I ask an adjacent householder, busy trimming her hedge, if I might trespass slightly on her driveway. "Oh, no, certainly not", comes the reply. "Put it in front of the house, where the neighbours might see it".

After lunch, I am heading north on the A 361 between Devizes and Avebury at a leisurely 55 m.p.h.,
enjoying a post-prandial Havana. I notice a red Escort in my mirror, headlamps and right-hand
indicator flashing, apparently bent on inspecting the inside of my exhaust pipes. Time to put the
proletariat in its place, I think. I bury the accelerator in the Wilton, the autobox shifts seamlessly
down a cog, the bonnet lifts ever so slightly and two and a half tons of animated drawing-room rocket forward in a surge of power, rapidly diminishing my pursuer to a speck in the rear-view mirror. A few miles later, my adrenalin level having subsided to normal and, with it, the speed of the Rolls, the demented Escort flashes past, horn blowing and the front passenger mouthing obscenities. I smile contentedly and raise two fingers from the steering-wheel in a gesture more familiar to Harvey Smith than Winston Churchill.

This is by no means the fastest car on the road - though quite fast enough for me - and there are other claimants to the title "best", whatever that means. There is, however, none which does so with the same, very British, sense of style and bespoke, hand-built quality. What the Rolls undeniably does better than any other car I have ever driven, let alone owned, is to lift the spirit and impart an overwhelming sense of well-being. This is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most splendid car in the world.

For the record:

Top speed -    134 m.p.h.    Length -   17 ft. 8 ins.
0 - 60 m.p.h. -    9.3 seconds    Width -   6 ft. 10 ins.
Fuel consumption -   15 m.p.g.    Price -    �123,021