To be honest, I don’t think I’m the right man for this job. Perhaps no man could willingly be. Predictably, I struggle to squirm my six-foot, one-hundred-and-plenty kilo frame into the snug cabin of this chic little fashion accessory, and when I finally am sat, the result can only be described as comical. I know this because this morning a bevy of cute girls in a well buffed German hatchback pointed at me before bursting into a collective giggling fit. I was vexed, ivory-white shades and pink golf shirt notwithstanding. It had to be the car, so it simply had to go – but for the sake of testing I’d suffer it for three more days. Bear with me.