Working an Anglo.

• Position: Letter to the Editor

One of my few faults is that I tend to take things personally. Consider, for example, my grudge against the English. As an American of Scotch-Irish heritage, I cannot forgive them their crimes against the Children of the Gael, trampling them beneath the heel of their $800 hand-crafted shoes. And lest we forget: These are the people who burned Washington during the War of 1812 (though, considering the events of the last few weeks, burning Washington is not necessarily a bad thing).

But let bygones be bygones. It's that car that has earned them my everlasting ire.

Five years ago, I came into some money, more money than I once thought a man could honestly make. (And since this involved stock, I was probably right.) I decided to take a good chunk of it and buy a new car. Not just any car, one that would last a lifetime. That, I figured, narrowed the choice to one: a Range Rover. After all, wasn't this the marque that made those rugged monsters that had conquered every terrain, from arctic slush to tropical mire?

And, I'll confess, I was influenced by all those James Bond movies I'd seen growing up. Back then, 007 drove British cars, fantastic vehicles that kept going whatever the situation, rivaling the Energizer bunny's dependability. What I had not taken into account was that Bond's transportation had been modified by "Q" and, as is the case with our own government issue, that meant a gearshift knob probably cost $7,000 to replace. Unfortunately, that's the only trait Bond's rides shared with my Range Rover.

I recall that day I sat up front with the driver of the wrecker ferrying the car back to Charlotte from our place in a Virginia mountain county whose gross domestic product barely exceeds the sticker price of the dead weight we hauled behind us. The locals gathered at the country store could barely hide their snickering as we rolled by. As one of them later...