Its quarter past one on a pleasant midsummers day and I'm about to have a fight witch a spotty teenager in a bashed-up Ford Fiesta. Quite how I get myself into these positions so frequently is an entire mystery to me.
I'm sitting in my gleaming, mud — free, furiously expensive Land Rover (exactly the same model as Victoria Beckhams ....... yeeeessss ...... took me ages to find it and it cost me more than a row of houses in most towns would, but it was worth every second and every penny). The Pussycat Dolls are blaring out, and the sun is shining down, bouncing off the windscreen and causing the sort of glare that makes every manoeuvre exciting for me and utterly hazardous for everyone else on the road. In short — I can't see a bloody thing ! My leopard — skin headrests already prevent any use of the rear window, and now there's little point in looking through the front one either.
“ Doncha !” I shout, clicking my fingers and tapping my feet. “ Whoops ! “ The pedals ! The car lurches forward until it stalls terrifyingly close to an expensive - looking black and orange motorbike. The huge silver bumper on the side of my car is about an inch from its flame — painted engine.
It is at point that I notice the ancient Fiesta directly in front of me, belching smoke and revving noisily. Theres a spotty teenager driving it and he clearly wants me to reserve out of his way. Reserve ? Me ? That's so not going to happen !
" It's a one-way street, shouts the boy, like I don't realise, and just for absolute clarity: “ You're going the wrong way down it “.
I smile alluringly, shrug innocently and pout seductively, but I don't move. I cannt move. I can barely drive this thing forwards without crashing, let alone try to manoeuvre it backwards. Well, not without taking out all the bikes parked down the side of the road in the process, and if I did that Id be even later for lunch than Id planned to be.
Were staring at each other over our respective steering wheels (mine has a fleecy candyfloss — pink cover on it). I remove my sunglasses and smile at thim, batting my luxuriously curled eyelashes;hoping to appear tempting yet vulnerable, and thus prompt him into action of a rous nature. He's clearly not impressed. In fact, he's sneering and snarling like an angry bullmastiff as he growls and grimaces. He's not dribbling — yet — but a chin full of spittle is all that's separating him from the animal kingdom. I pyt my sunglasses back on. I'm sure they cost more than his car. I don't mean that in a bitchy way - I mean I genuinely think my glasses cost more than his car. They're VBD — from Poshs new range — and quality does not come cheap.
“Move your fucking car”, he mounts, his eyes narrowing and fists clenching in an alarmingly aggressive, and not entirely gentlemanly fashion. I'd make a fist back, but my nail extensions don't allow for much movement at all in the finger departament, so I just stare and smile, and leave the barbaric gestures to him. Neither of us is going to move. We might be here for the rest of our lives.
To be continued .....