I drove a Mini last night - not a BMW hatchback wearing a Mini badge, but a real Mini, the one we voted Car of the Century back in 1995.
I'd forgotten the crummy fixtures and fittings, the bouncy ride, the who-left-the-windows-open refinement and the fact that, contrary to popular belief, there's no room inside at all.
It's effective too. In central London, an original Mini is still a devastatingly quick device, especially if it's fitted with one of the rortier versions of the 1275cc A-series engine.
No gap in the traffic is left unplugged while every roundabout provides an opportunity to savour steering that seems more closely related to that of a kart than a road car. I've driven racing cars that don't turn in as well as this.
Most compelling in this age is that all the fun it has to offer can be sampled and savoured at entirely legal speeds. Despite being so cramped I started to lose circulation in my toes, I didn't want to get out.