Updated: Nov 4
In the hidden corners of Warren Mead's car-yard, where metallic hues met the glint of afternoon sunlight, sat my Mulliner Park Ward—my Rolls Royce, gleaming bright in resplendent crimson. It wasn't just another car; it was an epitome of beauty and rarity—a sculpted masterpiece amidst a parade of immaculate rides.
Warren Mead's yard in Victoria Park was a showcase of luxury on wheels. Vintage and modern styles were displayed like rare gemstones, each one set with white-walled tyres that shimmered like pearls. This wasn't just any lot; it was a place where dreams of mobility turned into a runway of chic and trendy statements.
When I walked into that lot for the first time, my eyes were funnelled to a raised overlook where Warren stood. He was the man himself—Warren Mead—whose aesthetic choices had turned this humble yard into a spectacle of taste. He was dressed impeccably, his own person as polished as the cars he sold.
"Ah, welcome," he greeted, offering a brief survey of the grand parade below. His voice was like smooth jazz, resonating with decades of wheeling and dealing in high-class circles. "Anything catch your eye?"
My eyes were already captured by my future possession—the Rolls Royce—radiant in crimson red metallic. "Wow, that is beautiful," I sighed audibly, unable to contain my excitement.
Warren’s gaze was elsewhere though. He seemed fixated on a stunning blonde woman who was strolling past the yard, oblivious to the treasure trove of automobiles surrounding her. "Well, you only need money for that, mate," he grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But the maintenance costs could be pretty high”, he added.
A comical misunderstanding unfolded before us. I had been talking about the car, the dazzling Rolls Royce; he thought my sigh had been for the woman. We laughed about the mix-up, lightening the air of business dealings. "Ah, I see we were talking about different models!" he chuckled.
Our attention eventually converged back to the object of my affection, the Rolls Royce that seemed to command the day. Its allure was irresistible, a magnetic force that seemed to pull at my very core. "Let’s make this happen," I said firmly, ready to put down any sum for this icon of grandeur.
The question of a test drive didn't even cross my mind. What for? This was the ultimate automobile, and Warren's reputation for quality was impeccable. He was renowned for dealing only in cars that matched his own high standards. In his world, a Rolls Royce was not just a car; it was a commitment to luxury.
A deal was struck, a pact made with relative ease, in those halcyon days when a handshake between gentlemen would suffice. Paperwork was a mere formality when hearts and minds had already been won over. Soon enough, I was driving away in my new Rolls Royce, the embodiment of style, luxury, and unmatched beauty.
As I cruised down the boulevard, I felt like I was in a moving theatre where every lane change was a scene transition and every glance from a passerby was a standing ovation. True to Warren's initial misunderstanding, the car was indeed a magnet for many. A seductive appeal radiated from its metallic curves, inviting smiles, and occasional waves from strangers—just as Warren had planned all along.
And then one fine day, while rolling down St George's Terrace, the heart of Perth's business district, something extraordinary happened. A woman caught sight of the Rolls Royce and did something most unexpected—she curtseyed. Yes, a full, graceful curtsey, as if my crimson jewel had transformed the bustling streets into a royal court. I couldn't help but smile; my Rolls Royce wasn't just a car; it was a symbol of timeless elegance, captivating hearts across generations and continents.
With the horizon ahead and the roar of a 6.7 litre engine that sounded more like a purr, my spirit found nourishment in an ultimate trophy. It was a tale of fulfilled desires, a dance between man, machine, and the open road—a joyous experience that transcended the boundaries of simple ownership.
In that crimson Rolls Royce, one of only three in the State, I found a piece of heaven—a treasure chest of memories, wonderful and untraceable, that I would carry forward into many more open roads ahead.