Laura failed the driving test the first time around. She passed the second time.
We bought her a car, a VW polo hatchback, brushed gold, low mileage, one lady owner.
The phone rang: ‘I’ve run out of petrol,’ she stated. Off I went to the rescue.
One night Laura took friends for a drive, the car stereo boomed. 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 trying to advise her. Laura returned each wave feeling popular.
The phone rang: ‘I’ve had a bump in the car,’ she said. Husband 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. I witnessed the damage. The back-end of Laura’s car was destroyed, smashed to smithereens. What the hell! I ran to her. Discovered that she was faultless in the collision. A young lad had rear ended her at speed. When the policeman asked whether she had been drinking, she replied, ‘Yes coffee.’
This would not be the first request for a breathalyser check.