This car has a problem. One, BIG mother of a problem.
OK there are lots of little problems; it's a tyre muncher with an enormous appetite, it spawns a meticulous desire to keep the interior spotless that I have never experienced before; I worry about it incessantly wherever it is parked; it's a complete nightmare to keep clean; it is bloody loud; see previous point, but replace "loud" with "uncomfortable", see previous point, but emphasise tenfold if you're a passenger.
But in all honesty, if you didn't expect the above paragraph to ring true when you first beheld the car's inimitable beauty, then you should be wearing a cone-shaped hat.
As if the exhilarating performance, lush stylings and head-turning appeal of this car would not only warn you of these tiny niggles, but compensate entirely for them before force feeding you more delight. As if the fact that complete strangers stop me and tell me in the street that I have a beautiful, car and politely enquire from where I bought it doesn't offset the backaches and "Bridgestone customer of the month" gripes.
As if the fact that my nephew dreams of the day he's old enough to drive it, and dismisses my Dad's three-times more expensive 7 series BMW as "boring" doesn't say it all. As if anything can match the joy of seeing my mates pull faces that suggest their sphinctral muscles have ceased to function as I engage the VTEC. And as if I give a monkey's muscle that my girlfriend hates it.
Oh yeah, I forgot. The big problem? I've got to replace it one day.