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AROUND the age of 12, I was a passenger in a car accident. Two vehicles were written off and, while there were no serious casualties, I vividly recall the panic, consternation and distress of the adults involved. Calm and order were restored only when a police traffic patrol arrived to deftly take charge. Even at such a tender age, I shared the relief that accompanied the reassuring appearance of that Ford Granada ‘jam sandwich’.
Later on, as a youthful car enthusiast with a budget that stretched only to a series of decrepit old bangers, and then having enjoyed the performance of various exotics as a motoring writer, subsequent encounters with ‘Mr Plod’ may not have been quite so welcome.
But… when…
