By the third corner, my soul is wrapped in rough brown paper and packaged for sale, addressed FAO Lucifer. Faust himself would be slack-jawed with horror at the glib speed of the transaction. But then again, he’s probably never driven a Porsche 911 like this. If he had, he’d understand the immediate need to eBay personal eternity. In the first 20 minutes of driving, I’ve gone from mildly charmed to completely besotted with this daft little silver Porsche, a fist of feeling curled tightly around my heart. After a mayfly first hour, I’ve done some back-of-fag-packet calculations and worked out that, if I live on bark and rainwater until death, I could afford one. This is not like me. I think I might be ill. I don’t even like classic cars.