THE STIG IS CURRENTLY SURROUNDED BY REPRESENTATIVES OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. I HAVE ND IDEA WHY.
I also have no idea why they’d ask me if they can take a selfie with him, or what this represents for the future of international relations. Everyone seems very excited apart from The Stig, who shows about as much emotion as an oversized ball bearing. We’re outside Heathrow Terminal 3, nothing makes sense, it’s raining, and for some reason The Stig is not getting wet. Still, after mere moments, the white suit strides over to my car, opens the back door, ducks awkwardly under the roofline, fastens the belt and folds pronoun unspecific arms. My satnav pings with a set of coordinates somewhere a very long way away, and I raise my eyebrows. “Are you sure? I mean, that’s not really within the M25…” Literal reflective silence is my only answer. And so my day begins.
The backstory here is the car that I’m driving, a New York taxi cab yellow/mustard hued fifth-generation Toyota Prius. A car that wasn’t destined for the UK, Toyota believing that we would prefer a diet of SUVs and Corolla shaped things rather than a boring old saloon. Except that it’s not a boring saloon. The New Prius has caterpillared into a set to get a Prius allocation, albeit not unlimited and priced at £37,315 for the Design grade and £39,995 for the Excel, both top end plug-ins. Which is good news. But because we thought we weren’t getting it, no one’s really tested it in the UK, so borrowed one from Ireland and set about assessing it in the most Prius way possible. By becoming an Uber.
