Conspicuously owning and enjoying classic cars may bring a lot of pleasure, but it also brings with it a burden in that every even vaguely car-related question, duty and obligation will fall to you.
I live in a cul de sac – a meaningless phrase that utterly bemuses my French wife by the way – where, I am delighted to say, the residents (or a few of them at least) take a real (some might say intrusive) interest in protecting our tranquil (except that it is under the flightpath and backing on to the main line to Waterloo) little corner of London.
Somehow, I am still not sure exactly how, a few months ago I found myself voted on to the board of directors of the road's residents' association.
I am not for a minute suggesting it was rigged, but I wasn't at the AGM and having watched how some of the long-termers try and offload their duties ("I see you have a Christmas tree," "Yes, I do", "well would you like to be gardening director then?"), it wouldn't surprise me.
Being the sort of person who studiously avoids committees and associations of any sort, and certainly never volunteers for any proactive role in them, this has been an eye-opening experience for me.
It largely involves sitting around in someone's lounge discussing the same single issue over and over again with the same basic principle: oppose everything unless there is any slight financial implication for the association in which case sign it off instantly.