Why Mr Smith insists on driving at the speed of light, scattering everything in his way to the four winds, is beyond me. I like to take a more leisurely approach to the road. I do not berate people who have the temerity to adhere to the speed limit, nor do I drive one inch from someone who has the effrontery to be in front of my car for more than ten seconds. With Mr Smith at the helm I try to fall asleep in preference to white knuckling the M1; I nod off at Hammersmith and try not to return to consciousness before we hit Welcome to South Yorkshire. If I so much as whimper he screeches on the brakes and threatens to chuck me out onto the hard shoulder like an unwanted pet. Maybe someone nice with gentler driving skills might pick me up.
We drove back no less terrifyingly fast. I now have bulging eyes and a flatter face.
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