SNAPPY DRESSER

YOU EXPECT TO EXPERIENCE all sorts of sensory assaults after a long, hard drive. The nose-wrinklingly acrid smell of brake pads, the ring-ting-ding three-piece of hot metal contracting and expanding, and the sight of feathered tyres and spots of fluid overflow. However, those spots are now slowly but surely spreading into an unusually large stain on the tarmac. It’s also red-tinged and slightly oily to touch. Coolant.

Identifying the cause doesn’t require the detective skills of Horatio Caine, because it’s still embedded in the radiator. A piece of wood has ricocheted off the front splitter, punched through the protective wire mesh and wounded the Cayman. Game over. The nice people at Porsche are very understanding, though understandably want to know what I hit. Sadly, I’ve no idea; something substantial enough to flick up and over the GT4’s ground-scraping snout, yet not big enough to register from behind the wheel.

It’s the last time