There was a moment yesterday, driving the Wraith around Trafalgar Square, surrounded by red buses and listening to Desert Island Discs, that I’ve never felt more British.

There may be a German V12 engine at the heart of Rolls-Royce these days, but is there a more ‘British’ car I wonder?

The air of serenity inside the cockpit of the Wraith demands you switch from Radio 2 to Classic FM immediately, then set the slightly complicated heater fans to ‘soft’ and just soak up the atmosphere.

No need to press the 6.6-litre engine too hard, it’s gulping fuel at an alarming rate already. The Wraith isn’t a sports coupe by any measure – the ride is sublimely comfortable, like an armchair floating on air.

It’s a car built for Mr Bridger in the Italian Job, except you don’t need to be Noel Coward to appreciate it…