A tricky brief, broadly well realised but with some notable and, to be honest, really rather disappointing exceptions.
Now that I’m in my mid-90s (so ancient, indeed, that I can’t remember when I was born but most authorities agree it was around 1921) a certain old English traditionalism should be allowed without ever creating the impression that I am some kind of dilettante, Sobranie-smoking lounge lizard.
This is a note struck to perfection by the use of leather. But at the same time, I must be seen to be embracing modernity and I find much in the carbonfibre accents that speaks well of my cold, hard character and monochromatic outlook on life.
The dials are excellent, too, and prove a point lost on Aston Martin these past dozen years, namely that it is entirely possible for an instrument panel to be stylish and easy to read, all at the same time. But I’ll reserve the closest I come to real praise for the steering wheel, whose rim shape and thickness fit my hairy knuckles to perfection.
However, I’d lose all the buttons mounted on the wheel: I have no desire to be seen trying to emulate those pasty-faced, lily-livered, message-wedded Armco-dodgers who pass for racing drivers these days.
And now the less impressive aspects, the least of which was the near-terminal consequences of someone forgetting to load the machine guns.