Leaving a trail of tyre rubber as we tear away from traffic lights is tricky with 83bhp. But since third gear is the highest I need just now, I mash my right foot and watch the revs rise until they vault the redline. And even then, the engine keeps pulling.
Having leapfrogged most of the traffic, I hit the highway courtesy of a long, sweeping left handed on-ramp. The tyres squeal their disapproval at my rather ambitious speed on-turn in, but the opposite wall gets no closer. The Yaris stays planted. Taxis that had hitherto been four inches from my rear window get slowly smaller, unable to keep up.
The airport is a ten-minute blast away. That’s just enough time to rummage in the passenger footwell, the passport having slid out of sight.
I make it, and the team makes their flight. It’s just approaching mid-morning, and there’s still plenty of traffic on the roads. I’m not relishing the drive back to the office. The Yaris, idling next to me, once again is ready to take everything on the chin. I’m not sure I am.