Formula Ford racer through London

So I'm perched on bare metal, wedged so low within this hateful, vicious machine that potholes, divots and speedbumps are rendered invisible, leaving me to clang through them without warning, absorbing the consequences through said single vertebra. All road markings have disappeared. Taxis and buses, presumably under the impression that cars measuring less than three foot in height can be classified as a speedbump in a court of law, swing merrily across me at every junction. I am drenched to the bone and shaking like a nervous spaniel.

This wasn't the plan. The plan was to shake down the FF before it headed off on its N├╝rburgring record attempt (of which more in a sec) with a quick jaunt to a nearby drive-through. Because, y'know, it's a fast Ford, and the drive-through burger joint is the spiritual heartland of the fast Ford.