I didn’t realise my knackered Fiat Punto can actually do eighty miles an hour.
Under other circumstances I might marvel at this milometer milestone but at the time I’m sweating with fear, screaming at other cars to get out of my fucking way as I try to break the West Yorkshire land speed record in a desperate race to get home.
The term ‘the phone call that every parent dreads’ is a much bandied-about cliché, a tabloid headline, a Take-A-Break favourite to give bored housewives a delicious tingle of tea-break-terror before settling back into the comfort blanket of the humdrum and everyday.
Actually, Take-A-Break should rebrand as Tea-Break-Terror. Or maybe I’ll start my own shabby publication. I don’t know.
Me and the Punto amber gamble at a junction and we win.
The call came at work, the parental dread phone call. This time it was one parent phoning the other…
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