So, the other day my mother says to me, “Why don’t you buy a car?” She says it earnestly, not in that “Fine, if you’re not getting married at least buy a car to prove you’re not a dangerous subversive” way. “A car?” I ask, perplexed.

It is well known that I’m the wrong person to tell, with that fake hint of casualness, “I’m in the blue Skoda” because I will have to ask sincerely, not in order to mock your snobbery, “What type of blue?” For some reason — I’m sure there’s a Latin term for this disorder — I am genuinely unable to tell one car from another. If I had a car, I would never be able to recognise it, leave alone drive it.