A life in letters: Motor Show

As a child in the late 1950s and early 1960s I loved attending the Motor Shows held regularly at the Kelvin Hall in Glasgow, when it seemed to me that every conceivable make of vehicle was on display. My father was always enthusiastic about cars, and until the last few years of his life remained knowledgeable about, and able to identify many of the new models. My interest was, and remains limited, but as we walked up and down the bustling aisles between the stands what I did enjoy was collecting, simply for the sake of it, the glossy advertising brochures which seemed to be in much more plentiful supply than in later years. Sometimes I had to sneak copies off the coffee tables when the salesmen manning the stalls were deep in discussion with potential clients over carburettors and miles-per-gallon. Curiously, my parents did not discourage this petty pilfering.  I’d fill one or two plastic bags with this material, and at the end of the day carry them back to our car clutched tightly to my chest as the handles would inevitably be on the point of severing due to the weight. Back home, these bags would lie abandoned in the corner of my bedroom for a week or so, before ending up in the bin. It was, I suppose, simply the joy of accumulating.  What I liked most about the Motor Show was the much quieter section at the far end where the latest commercial vehicles were on display. Lorries fascinated me, and there was a special thrill in sitting alone on the top deck of a brand-new bus, its paintwork shiny, its saloons redolent of leather. The fact that it was actually parked inside a building, a secure cocoon within a busy public space only increased the attraction.