The great secret of posh motoring is that the poshest seat is rarely the one behind the wheel. A magnificent machine is a joy; being seen to need to drive it yourself, somewhat less so. The ideal is a car that whispers rather than shouts, in a colour no one can quite name, that arrives everywhere five minutes late and entirely forgiven.

There is a hierarchy, naturally. The new and the loud belong to people who are still proving something. The quietly perfect — hand-stitched, understated, faintly old — belong to people who stopped needing to prove anything several decades ago. The engine should be felt in the chest and never in the ears. The badge should be recognised only by those who already own one.

Above all, the posh motorist knows that the destination is a formality. One does not drive to be somewhere. One drives to be between places, gloved, unhurried, and impossible to reach by telephone.