Bella failed the driving test first time round, then jacked the lessons in for a while. She passed the second time.
We bought her a car, a VW polo hatchback, a brushed gold colour, low mileage, one lady owner.
The phone rang: ‘I’ve run out of petrol,’ she stated, and off I went to the rescue.
She had taken friends for a drive, the stereo booming. Somehow she had left the tailgate of the car open, music bombarded the streets. She drove around town, the tailgate bouncing in the air. People were waving, Bella returned each wave, she felt popular.
The phone rang: ‘I’ve had a bump in the car,’ she said. Dad was out playing squash for a team. Off I went to the rescue.
I approached the site, and saw police cars, an ambulance. I drove past her car to park mine, and witnessed the damage. The back-end of her car was destroyed, smashed to smithereens. What the hell! I ran to her. Discovered that she was faultless in the collision, a young lad rear ended her at speed. When the policeman asked whether she had been drinking, she replied, ‘Yes coffee.’
There would be future requests for a breathalyser check.