On the other hand, I tell myself, stop being such a big girl’s blouse. How many times am I going to get the chance to punt a chopped M3 on an unrestricted autobahn? Well, once, if the thing goes airborne and I end up as a long streak of red crayon over a mile of German tarmac. 150mph: The whole back end feels helium light, and it doesn’t help that this section of the autobahn is one enormous bend: the flat-back M3 is trying to shimmy out of its lane and into the slower lane next door. It’s starting to lightly twerk like Miley Cyrus scenting a camera. How long can this corner be? Surely I’ve now covered 360° and I’m heading back the way I came? And ahead, more bad news: a white van has randomly decided to overtake and pull into my fast lane at about, oh, a million miles an hour less than I’m doing. I’m feathering the brake pedal to stop the back of the M3 hitting me in the head, and trying to divide the distance between me and the van by the capacity of my bladder to find the maximum number of decibels I can swear at.