It was half three in the morning and I was fast asleep at the time, body resting, brain fizzing. George Clinton was delivering the milk as usual, in the distance there was the smell of honey wafting across a corn field – which may or may not have been on fire – and for some reason I couldn’t make my legs work fast enough to catch up with George for a chat as he walked away.

And then – KERRTHUMP! – a huge juggernaut drove straight into the back of George’s milk-float, and I sat bolt upright in bed, wondering.

But then there was another almighty crash, and this time it was real and just outside our house because I was awake. And I knew instantly what the sound was – that of one car making contact with another, followed by the unique tinkling of glass breaking as, presumably, the remains of a headlight scattered itself across the street.

I fired myself out of bed, ran to the front door, opened it up as fast as I could and couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing – which was a Golf being driven the wrong way up our one-way street, veering from side to side, clouting one car and then the next as it careened its way up the road.

By then it was far too far away to get the number plate. And then a dreadful thought punctured my still slumbered mind; where’s the 1M parked, and has it been clobbered by Mr (or Mrs, or possibly even Ms) stoned-out-of-their-mind VW Golf?