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.