Emmaprovement Continues...

"Want to go to the Ferrari factory?", emails my editor.
"Um, no", I email back. "I hate Ferraris. I hate flash cars; you know that. Can't a boy go instead?"

Editor: "No, it'll be funny. You'll be test-driving them."
Emma: "I can't drive stick. I can barely drive. No."
Editor: "I think Ferraris have buttons, not a stick."
Emma: "Are you not listening?! I don't think I even have a valid licence. I'm a danger to the road..."

But two days later, I'm boarding a plane to Maranello, Italy; the guest of Ferrari and Vertu - the astronomically expensive phone manufacturer - who are collaborating on a limited edition phone.

Press junket trips are a bit like summer camp. Journalists are thrown together in close quarters, so everyone is always a little uncomfortable for the first hour. The others are, as expected: motorheads, gleeful at the thought of visiting Ferrari headquarters. I smile wanly at them, thinking: 'Dorks'.

If there is anything worse than owning a flash car, it's wanting to own a flash car and not being able to afford one.

A male friend texts me: 'Is it true you're at the Ferrari headquarter?!?! Cunt!!'. What is it about men and fancy cars? To me, they just seem like a colossal waste of money; as well as advertising a possible deficiency in the trouser department.

The factory is impressive, though: huge and airy and full of the most beautiful mechanics I've ever seen; a bit Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, really.

Eventually, some of the car stuff does sink in. A Ferrari is seemingly a fabulous piece of machinery. Every one is individually ordered and customised to the customer's whims. I take notes and nod a lot, but I think it's starting to dawn on everyone that I'm clearly clueless about cars.

"How much is this one?", I whisper to one of the motorheads, pointing at a red and white customised convertible.

"Hmm, 175,000 or thereabouts", he says.

" That's the cost of a flat!", I say, incredulous.

He nods. My mother is right; men shouldn't be allowed out with money, unsupervised.

The grand finale is obviously the racetrack, where we'll be doing laps of the Ferrari testtrack. The motorheads are actually getting giddy, jumping around in anticipation. I'm worried I might lose my lunch.

I'm just glad they've flown in the professional Ferrari drivers. Heaving myself into the passenger seat, I snap on the fetching helmet, strap on about six seatbelts and brace myself.

It's fast; I'll give you that. Exhilarating, even. The driver keeps looking over, trying to make pleasant conversation. I want to tell him to watch the road.

"You okay?", he asks, looking pointedly at my clenched knuckles, which are turning blue.

"Relax", he says. And somewhere about the third lap, I actually do relax. Hell, I'm even giggling, as the car skids across corners and the speedometer climbs higher and higher.

"Faster!", I yell, above the roar of the engine, edging him on. He slams on the gas, and I actually feel my body being forced back in the seat.