Well Met

We're about to leave to stay with Francis' parents and preparations are, in their decidedly disorganised way, proceeding apace, albeit at a snail's apace.

Things aren't helped when I'm driven into. I've just obeyed one rule one of suburban motoring lore, which dictates that in slow-moving traffic, you should always let in the first car queuing to turn left from a side turning but only a) if you like the look of the driver and b) they make a bit of effort to win you over - a smile, an imploring look or hard cash will all make a difference.

This time the car behind the one I let in appears not to like my interpretation of the rules and drives straight out and into the bumper, like a dodgem car.

I pull in. The other car follows. In it is a cosy looking elderly couple, obviously married. He is jovial looking with a large red nose and a benign expression. She is small and neat, wearing a smart dark jacket with gilt buttons.

"What did you do, exactly?" I ask the man. He shrugs. "Don't know, really. I'm not sure how it happened. I don't think there's any damage, though."

"I think we'd better swap details," I say. "Just in case. Who's your insurer?"

"I'm with the Met," he says.

"The Met?" I ask, stupidly, wondering why I've never heard of this exciting, new name in the wacky world of big finance and monthly premiums and hoping that Michael Winner won't pop up to endorse it.

"Yeah. The Met."

The nice wife now helpfully pulls down her blind. "Metropolitan Police," it says, in large letters.

"And do you have a warrant?"

"Yup. Here's my mobile phone number. Get your husband to call me later if he thinks there's a problem." I note the time, his registration number, the road name and we part company.

There are times in my life I've been glad that I've exercised restraint. Now is definitely one of those moments. There may be a right time and place for road rage but this isn't it. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. Dying to tell Francis about all, I wait till he gets home and say, perhaps not thinking the words through for long enough beforehand, "Francis, you just need to check over the car. Somebody drove into me from a side turning today and -"

"JESUS CHRIST!" says Francis, who has obviously had a bad day at the office, with too much HO HO HO and too few sales orders, "NOT AGAIN. You just don't realise how much all these excess payments add up."

Feeling a tad aggrieved to be interrupted midway through a cracking story and, furthermore, accused of telepathically inciting cars to drive into mine, I snap my lips shut.

"Did you get their details at least?"

"No," I lie, and carry on typing, cartoon style, fingers jackhammering keys at random.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE