One of the rites of passage is learning to drive.
When I made it through the driver training course at high school, my dad thought it was safe for him to get in a car with me in the driver’s seat.
Unfortunately, the car he chose was his Porsche.
Talk about being puffed-up over a possession.
He had special driving gloves and a slouchy English-style driving hat.
(For a German car, shouldn’t he have had one of those cuckoo clock hats with feathers sticking up?)