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There I was, nursing a coffee in the evening sunshine, minding my own business in a pub garden, when from round the corner I heard these three noises: a revving engine, screeching tyres, a loud CRACK!
A CRACK? I put two and two together and to my dismay it made five, at least. Some muppet in an Audi, showing off to his mates, had dropped the clutch in reverse and barrelled across the car park straight into my hitherto oh-so-pretty Lotus Elise Type 49.
“Sorry, mate,” he slurred, viewing the Lotus’s cracked clamshell with an unfocused eye. “I didn’t see it.”
What’s red, white and gold, sticks out in a car park full of silver cars like a red balloon at a Tory conference, and now is in bits?
“I’m really sorry, said Mr Audi. “Send me the estimate, and I’ll pay it straight away.” I did, and he didn’t. Watch this space.
