I remember the first time I was really scared. Dad had said I could stay up late and watch American Werewolf in London if I didn’t tell mum. A deal was struck and I settled down in front of the TV, quietly.

As it got going I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. But then, “Stay on the road,” they said. End up on the moors, they did. And what came out of the fog left me cowering behind the cushions, incapable of legging it to bed for fear of being mauled before reaching the safety of my Scooby Doo duvet.

Since then, the only other time I’ve felt such a fright was when I saw the first pictures of the Subaru Impreza WRX.