As the miles have racked up, a small noise has occasionally reminded me just how used to the Evo's extraordinary cornering powers I have become. That noise is the sound of passengers, whimpering. But I wish this car wasn't white, especially with those red Ralliart mudflaps that just draw attention to its whiteness.

That's why I decided I wasn't going to wash it, thereby allowing it to acquire a patina of rally-style grime that would tone down its uncomfortable likeness to a domestic appliance. So it was frustrating to leave it for just one day and return to find that expert car cleaner Richard Tipper of Perfection had popped in and returned it to showroom brilliance.

Thing is, the cleaner it is, the more it gets clocked by owners of Imprezas or older Evos. I'm probably being paranoid but it's as if simply by driving the Evo I've joined a club ΂- their club ΂- and as such I'm obliged either to see them off or sit meekly behind in deference to their superior ability. What I'd like to say to them isn't printable.

Running the Evo is stressful enough without worrying what everyone else on the road with a 4wd Jap turbo saloon thinks.