Something has happened that never happens. I’ve amassed about £20,000 — which probably means £25,000 after a few what-the-hell raids on the mortgage money — to buy a special car, something to love and cherish and feel special in.

In this job, you contemplate such purchases all the time — theoretically. But when you’re ready to lay down actual cash, two unfortunate things happen. First, you realise £25k isn’t much: any thought that this sum makes you special dies during your first scan of the classifieds.

Second, you become stupidly sensible, as it were. Instead of searching for a unique machine of flawed brilliance, something imaginative and brave that no-one else has thought of, you head for the obvious: one of the fairly tired Porsche 911s or half-decent Porsche Boxsters that currently flood the market.

Don’t get me wrong, a Porsche is a terrific choice. I’ve been there. We had a family 911 Carrera years ago: dead reliable, fun to own and not so bad to service and insure. The Steering Committee liked driving it, enjoyed the kudos of the office car park, found the front boot okay for supermarket bags, and until they grew too large we’d whip our kids into the two folding rear seats for outings.