We mix the photography with the driving, and I specifically avoid trying the cars in chronological order. The lure of the F40 is strongest. By this point, the 288’s 308 genealogy had given way to something new, somewhere beyond testosterone and closer to Group C, and though there are wings, ducts and air intakes, it’s distilled rather than cartoonish. The doors are very light, the seats and belts are pure racing car, and the dash makes a mockery of our current obsession with connectivity.

Connectivity, you say? The F40 is 4G, 4D, 7.1 surround sound or, if you prefer, as in-yer-face as a Rottweiler straining on its lead, salivating maw and all. It immediately gets your blood pumping, strains every muscle and sinew. It physically and mentally asks as much of you as any road car I’ve driven, demands that you have your s**t very much together or else. On which basis, it’s absolutely chuffing sensational, every bit as good as everything you’ve ever heard or read. Better, in fact.