Hiring a car seemed fairly straightforward.

I’d booked an automatic because, having not driven in Britain for years, I thought I’d make life easy for myself.

Sensible.

What I actually collected was a 2026 Peugeot 208 GT Hybrid.

Sounds great, doesn’t it?

My first problem was finding it.

Somewhere in the multi-storey car park at Southampton Airport was a Peugeot 208 waiting for me.

Apparently.

I wandered around for a while until a very helpful car cleaner/valeter took pity on me and helped me find it.

And eventually, there she was.

Bright red.

Not burgundy. Not tasteful metallic crimson.

Proper, glorious, look-at-me RED.

A shiny little Peugeot sitting there looking considerably more sophisticated than the woman who was supposed to drive it.

I rather liked her.

This was before I realised she was possessed.

She’s called Christine.

Those of a certain age may remember Christine, the horror film about a bright red car with a mind of its own.

The name seemed appropriate.

I got in.

It was dark.

The seat appeared to have been adjusted for a hobbit and the steering wheel was so low it was in serious danger of dissecting my thighs.

Fine.

I’ll adjust everything.

Except I couldn’t find anything.

I ended up grovelling around underneath the steering column in a dark airport car park trying to work out how to move the bloody steering wheel.

My phone wouldn’t connect either.

Then I encountered another problem.

How do you actually start it?

My little Fiesta back in New Zealand has a key.

You put the key in.

You turn the key.

The car starts.

It’s a beautifully simple arrangement that has apparently become terribly old-fashioned.

Christine had a button.

Somewhere.

I couldn’t find it.

So there I was, sitting in my brand-new bright-red hire car, using the torch on my phone to search for the means of actually turning the thing on.

Eventually I found it.

START.

Excellent.

I pressed it.

Christine woke up.

Now for the handbrake.

There wasn’t one.

Or at least, there wasn’t anything resembling the handbrake I’ve understood for the previous several decades.

By some combination of determination, guesswork and blind faith, I eventually persuaded Christine that we were leaving the car park.

I pulled away very gingerly.

I was already nervous. I hadn’t driven in Britain for years, I was in an unfamiliar car, and the unfamiliar car seemed to know considerably more about itself than I did.

Then I noticed something on the display.

A tiny little road-sign symbol containing the number:

48

Forty-eight what?

Was that my speed?

The speed limit?

A warning?

Had Christine simply chosen her favourite number?

I had no idea.

It stayed there for the entire journey.

More worrying was something that wasn’t there.

The speedometer.

I couldn’t find it.

Anywhere.

I had displays. Symbols. Graphics. Lights. Information.

But the one piece of information I thought might be rather useful when driving a car — HOW FAST AM I GOING? — was nowhere to be seen.

So I made my way back to Julie’s in a fairly heightened state of anxiety, accompanied by Christine and her mysterious 48.

We arrived.

I announced that Christine was now part of the household.

And that’s when I discovered she was watching me.

Christine knows when I’m nearby.

I can simply walk past her on the drive and she gets excited.

Her wing mirrors move.

She locks herself.

She unlocks herself.

Lights come on.

Things whirr.

I’m not even trying to get into her.

I’ll just walk past and:

WHIRRR. CLICK. FLASH.

Hello Nicky!

It’s slightly unnerving.

Fortunately, Julie’s husband took one look at the situation and began unlocking the mysteries of Christine.

And then we discovered what had happened.

Whoever had hired her before me had apparently decided to leave me a little challenge.

They’d removed the speedometer from the display.

They’d changed everything to kilometres.

They’d altered the dashboard.

They’d moved the seat.

They’d moved the steering wheel.

Basically, they’d fiddled with everything that could possibly be fiddled with and then handed Christine back.

Apparently I needed to customise my dashboard.

I’m sorry?

I don’t need my dashboard to express my personality.

I don’t require a carefully curated selection of driving information reflecting who I am as a person.

I need a speedometer.

I’d consider that less of a personalised extra and more of a basic requirement for driving a car.

Eventually we got everything sorted.

Miles per hour.

Speedometer restored.

Seat adjusted for a human being rather than a hobbit.

Steering wheel relocated from the immediate vicinity of my kneecaps.

Phone connected.

Excellent.

Now all I had to do was understand the hybrid.

Hybrid what?

Do I plug her in?

Do I charge her?

Does she charge herself?

When does she use petrol?

When does she use electricity?

How does she switch between the two?

Do I decide?

Does Christine decide?

Obviously Christine decides.

Sometimes I’m driving along and the engine switches off.

Christine!

The first time it happened, I thought she’d died.

No.

Apparently she’s just saving the planet.

She’ll stop the engine when she feels like it and start it again when she considers it necessary.

At traffic lights, she’ll switch herself off.

I’m still using you, Christine.

She doesn’t care.

She knows what she’s doing.

She also has opinions about my driving.

Get too close to something and Christine gets involved.

Things beep.

Warnings appear.

She may even decide that whatever I’m doing isn’t acceptable and intervene.

This is not the relationship I have with my Fiesta.

My Fiesta understands the arrangement.

I drive the car.

Christine appears to regard me more as a suggestion.

We’re getting along better now.

I’ve found the speedometer.

I know roughly what most of the noises mean.

My phone connects.

I’ve worked out that I don’t have to plug her into the house at night.

And I’m becoming accustomed to her waking up excitedly whenever I walk past.

I’m still not entirely convinced who’s in charge.

But we’re travelling around Britain together now.

Me and Christine.

My glorious bright-red Peugeot 208 GT Hybrid.

She’s beautiful.

She’s clever.

She’s slightly controlling.

She watches me when I walk past.

She decides when she’d like an engine.

And occasionally she takes matters into her own hands when she doesn’t approve of what I’m doing.

Her name is Christine.

What could possibly go wrong?