Inspired by that 240 appetiser, I inevitably took a dive into the classifieds to see what’s about. It must be nostalgia-fuelled because, by any rational measure, they’re an odd car to get enthusiastic about – Volvo’s approach to safety at that time being to basically surround occupants with as much metal and rubber as possible. Hence huge overhangs, ungainly bumpers and stubbornly stolid performance from mainly breathless four-cylinder engines. I shouldn’t like this car. But I’m not alone in finding myself strangely attracted to the idea of running one, 240 estates having a surprisingly passionate following and prized for their toughness and longevity.
A couple I found seem to fit that traditional owner profile too, at least if the descriptions are to be believed. One is a late model, one-owner 1993 240SE with electric windows (that I wouldn’t dare use in deference to the scolding from my aunt 30-odd years ago) up for a pretty sturdy £6,500. Or about ten times what I found another on eBay for.
The other is a 92,000-mile manual in a very Farrow & Ball-esque flat blue that the advert promises has been ‘mostly’ used by one of those mythical original lady owners and comes with a fulsome history file full of main dealer service stamps. For £2,500 it sounds rather more attractive, assuming those claims bear out. Based in Devon, my imagined former life for the car comprises little more than wafting its owner to her yoga class or perhaps the odd hearty walk on Exmoor. And not the basis for some mad, rat-look drift car conversion with a giant turbo sticking out of the bonnet, as some have ended up.
Subverting the right-on image like has merit but then so does decorating it with anti-nuke stickers and giving my kids a chance to revive the tradition of flicking vees at lorry drivers.