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It was all set to be one of those supreme moments; a small triumph to stack up against the constant humiliations of my working life. I was at Silverstone last week, watching Sir Stirling Moss test the fabulous Aston Martin DBR1 – the actual car which won Le Mans in 1959. I was there only because I was on holiday, and I’m the girlfriend of the test driver who checked the DBR1 out first, and I didn’t want to be left at home. 

After Sir Stirling’s drive, a Very Senior Person from Aston Martin Racing suggested we all go for lunch. So there we there in the pub: Sir Stirling Moss, a Very Senior Person from Aston Martin Racing, Duncan Wiltshire of Motor Racing Legends (which runs the historic support race at Le Mans), my bloke and me – the girlfriend huddled silently in the corner with a glass of orange juice. The talk was, understandably, all about the glory days of Le Mans. I kept very quiet until one of the Great Men asked: “Who drove the other DBR1 in 1959 – you know, the one that came second?” 

Oh, now who was it…?” pondered Sir Stirling, who had himself been in the race, and the Very Senior Person from Aston Martin likewise scratched his head. Now it just happens that I had written something on this very subject the week before. By complete fluke I not only knew that it was Paul Frere and Maurice Trintignant, but I also knew their grid positions, qualifying lap-times – the lot. Chassis numbers of the two cars? No problem. This was my moment: the shy girlfriend would quietly reveal the profound depths of her historical knowledge to rapturous applause. I cleared my throat and all eyes turned towards me as my mind went completely blank. Utterly, totally blank. “Er… I’m just going to the loo,” I whispered, and shuffled out.