It’s been a typical Monday in Mulhouse, southwest France. You’ve been to work, commuted home again, and are now relaxing after another same-old day. A year that broke temperature records around the world has continued the habit, and an unseasonal heatwave has brought a blast of summer back to the autumnal landscape. Daytime temperatures of 30 degrees have reduced only slightly by 8.30pm, so you’re savouring the warm evening, leaning out of your third-floor window and puffing away on a cigarette, as is the French way.
In the distance, at the top of the dark street, something catches your eye. A car begins to roll into view. Only it doesn’t quite add up, as you can’t hear an engine. Behind the inky profile, three silhouetted figures appear. They’re pushing the car, and the rearmost figure stands tall and puts his arm out in clear signal: they intend to turn left. You watch, puzzled, as the vehicle is pushed slowly around the roundabout and down the road towards you.
Over the next couple of minutes, the slow-motion spectacle passes by. It’s a Porsche 911 on UK plates, hazard warning lights flashing, while the rear engine lid is up. Passing underneath you, silent but for the impotent roar of cooling fans, you run into the house to get the family to see. By the time you all return, the spectre has vanished. A dark, empty street yawns at you all, and
