There is a very particular kind of family occasion that sees my wife Emily heading to Cornwall in shorts and a bikini, entirely sensibly, while I sit beside her in a white suit, sweating gently in what turned out to be a genuinely sweltering 35 degrees. The occasion demanded it.
There is a particular kind of English shame that comes from arriving at a country pub in something the size of a small yacht, only to spend ten minutes reversing it into a space clearly designed for a Fiat Panda and a bicycle. I know this shame intimately. I have worn it like a poorly fitted dinner jacket. So when the keys to the Lexus LBX landed on my desk, my first reaction was not excitement about badge prestige or hybrid credentials. It was relief. Here, finally, was a Lexus that might fit into my life rather than requiring me to reorganise the entire village.
