I scared the life out of a BMW driver tonight. He pulled out in front of me at a roundabout, realised he’d cut things a bit fine and swerved onto the grass verge. I, proceeding in an unhurried manner, just looked quizzical. Fortunately it was dark, as my quizzical look is not one for the faint-hearted.
He was never in any danger because we weren’t going fast. I think he was probably a bit tired, misjudged it and then misjudged it again when he saw me.
A moment later we were in the car park where a woman was standing on her head. Yes, you read that correctly.
She was wearing baggy trousers so she could have been a circus act (they have them staying at the Travelodge from time to time) or she may just like nocturnal yoga.
It must have been a surprise to Number Two Son, who let out a squeak. After a sporting career playing Number 8 and Loose Forward he doesn’t squeak easily.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m in a Dali painting.