This is a tale I invented for a 4 years old child who asked me yesterday what was I reading on this Anne Boleyn site. The truth could be too crude for a child, I thought .

Once upon a time there was a man, named Henry, who inherited his first car from his brother.
It was a Rolls Royce, brand new with 0 km, it was legally a second hand car but in fact it was a new one.
He was satisfied of this car, he drove it for many years, always happy but with the time the car was not so beautiful like a new one, the lack was not shining as before and the motor had some problems.
Henry saw a Ferrari and started to desire it. After seeing the Ferrari he did not like the old Rolls anymore. He started to think that probably his brother drove it before him, that there were some mistakes in the ownership transfer act and the car never was his own and ordered the Ferrari .
Waiting for the new car he still used the old one but his mind was on the Testarossa.
He had to wait a lot but finally the car was ready for him. He parked the Rolls inside one garage and forgot it.
He was so happy of the new car, new, beautiful, top performances. He thought he could never get tired of it but… day by day he realized it was not the right car. Just touching the accelerator the motor was roaring, reducing the gear the motor strongly protested, it was really difficult to drive, it seemed that the car decided for him.
Furthermore a lot of people looked at the Ferrari with admiration, people turned heads when he was passing, watching this perfect model. He was very jealous of his car and was disturbed. He started to hate this car he was not able to drive and thought that probably somebody else wanted to drive it.
So angry he became that he decided to destroy it, to scrap it.

In fact in the last times he saw another Rolls Royce, a new one, and he thought that probably this was the right car for him. Convenient, not so fast and exciting but reliable. He purchased it but he was unlucky, the motor broke off in few time, no way to repair it.
So he thought that this time he could try a German car. On one catalogue he saw a Mercedes Benz.
It looked very nice, he ordered it but when it finally was delivered he was not satisfied. Colour was different, details were not as expected. He kept the car for some time but he never drove it and finally he parked it, again thinking to a new one.

With a Porsche was love at first sight. Small but fast, exciting to drive. A little jewel. He was very happy but he was growing old, it was not exactly the car for a big old fat man. He was told that probably the car was not brand new and that somebody else was driving it sometimes. He became furious and once again he reduced the car in scraps.

At the end he saw a second-hand BMW station wagon. Not new but in nice conditions, right car for an old man, he drove not too fast but it was large enough for him and reliable.
This car was his last, BMW was immediately purchased by a younger owner after Henry’s death and he was able to obtain performances that Henry was not able to obtain.

When I finished the tale he told me, very seriously:
Auntie, I think that Henry was not able to drive a car.

The voice of innocence.