"My driving is a safe kind of chaotic. Scatty but slow..."

MY SISTER is driving me to Stansted Airport. Right now she’s navigating a junction on the M11, so that we might merge with traffic on the A120 and she is getting sweary, London-driver style.

“Who’s collecting you in Cork?” she asks, swerving onto the A120 behind a lorry but I do not answer; even if I wasn’t wholly preoccupied with trying to maintain normal lung function I would not be tempted to divert her concentration away from the lorry wheels in front.

“Or have you left your car in your secret spot?” she says.