Baby, you can't drive my car

Had an amusing encounter with this colourful fellow in Aachen this afternoon.

His crap parking skills were making me cringe. I couldn't stand the thought of his nice car scraping the curb, so I gave him a few helpful directions. It was all I could do not to offer to park his car myself. Anyway, after he had it safely parked, we got chatting and I asked if he minded me taking a few photos of his car. "Please do," he beamed. Before long we were deep in car talk. The car is an Audi R8 Coupé. It has a 5.2 litre V10 engine. Its top speed is 317 kph (197 mph) and it has an ridiculous amount of torque. The car interior - he insisted I sit in the driver's seat and admire the cockpit - made me go weak in the knees. It was all fine Nappa leather and micrometallic inlays, never mind the 465 watt B&O sound system. What did a full tank of petrol cost, I wanted to know. "160 Euros," he replied cheerfully. I tried not to blanche. Well, enough of the car stuff as I'm sure not all of you are car mad like me.

The man himself was quite a picture. He wore bright red trousers with matching red suede loafers (no socks), and an Emirates cap. He had enough gold and diamonds on him to make Fifty Cent nervous. The gold chains around his neck and the rings on his left hand aren't visible, unfortunately. He was a terrible flirt. He asked if I wanted to go for a spin with him. A pick-up line if I ever heard one. "Only if I can drive," I winked.

He turned me down.

Sigh.