Wow. I’ve just come back from an electric drive. It’s raining with vengeance at the moment and in a moment of uncontrolled insanity, I decided to drive to work today.

In my usual energetic fashion did I tackle the North Circular and, as impossible as it is to drive sans Sport Mode, the car adopted its reputed raison d’etre as “the twitchy bastard”.

Sport mode on, the traction control is relaxed so any squirt of the throttle has you gripping the steering wheel from your finger tips with anticipation in the same way you’d try to pull a magazine from under a sleeping snake. If you’ve seen American Psycho, Patrick Bateman is the Michelin Pilot Cups personified. A dignified gentleman during the day, exuding an air of confidence and class, but when your skull is cleaved in two, you’re kinda still in a little shock from the unexpected gesture.

Every moment of insecurity is channeled right into the base of your spine, every tireslip, every puddle. It’s a sensory orchestra and I’m conducting. There was another moment of fear as a hard second gear push away from the lights sent the rears in a confused, chaotic panic. It was only my yelp of fear that allowed me to maintain false equilibrium to the event. It was like breaking into a light jog after you trip.

With your wipers on full speed, a little bit of creative lane discipline, even the most mundane of journeys become an event.

I ended the night with some late shopping at Tescos. As my flat six tinked and clicked itself to silence, the rain continued to pierce the London smog and I watched as the cashier scanned my raw prawns through the till. It wasn’t until I noticed the jiggling keys in my hand that prompted me to question my possible nervous disposition that I’d mysteriously acquired. Only it wasn’t, I was just itching to get behind the wheel again.