Engine catches softly with a stern urgency that flirtily fails to mask a teasing under note, like a mid-flight giggle from an air hostess. First gear slots as a smooth as Roger Moore’s snooker table, clutch bites like an Alsatian on amphetamines and we are rolling. Straight away, you can feel that this baby wants to play, and the game is called ‘progress’. That motor under the prow may pack just 1.2 neat little litres but such is its eagerness to please that you might wrongly guess it runs on pure prostitutes.