It was five minutes since I'd finished work, and I was on my way home for the weekend. It was a fine spring afternoon in early april, and the trees were beginning to come into leaf, the bright green mingling with the pale colour of the apple blossoms. As I wound my way along the road from the factory gates to the highway I wound down the window and switched on the radio.

The highway was less busy than usual; I'd left work an hour early as it was very quiet. I pulled onto the carriageway and sat in the inside lane. I was in no real hurry, and the battered Ford I use for this trip every day isn't really up to it. I leant my arm on the door and just as I was settling down for the drive, an black MG, with the hood down, cut into the lane in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and was just about to start hurling abuse at my windscreen when a slender gloved hand waved back apologetically.

I shrugged it off and carried on down the road, coming off at the offramp for the centre of town. The driver of the black sports car was reading a map on the passenger seat. Every so often she would drift towards the kerb, and make a sudden jerk of the wheel to put the car back on track.

We came up to a queue of traffic at some lights. She took the opportunity to wind down the passenger window (by hitting the top of it) and adjusted her headscarf and sunglasses. I tried to make eye contact with her in the rear view mirror. The lights turned green, and she turned off onto the road to the coast.