You don't see many fluoro supercars in Streatham, the dodgy end. I know this, because moments after opening the 650S's butterfly door, swinging my leg over the chunky carbon sill and stumbling into the middle of the road, I'm descended upon by at least six of my neighbours, all with bouncing, chocolate-smeared children in tow. It's a full-time job being a supercar owner. First-world problems, I know, but it really is exhausting threading it through traffic without clouting the wing mirrors, smiling and waving at every enthused pedestrian and finding a parking space where you can see it from your bedroom window. A fitful night's sleep follows, ravaged by anxiety dreams and no fewer than five curtain twitches to ensure it's still there and without a fresh set of racing stripes down the side.
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