Real life | 3 December 2011

Hilarious as it would be to say I had a crash on my way to trade my car in for a new one, I’m not entirely sure that was what happened.

I was driving very slowly down Streatham High Road on my way to Croydon where the new Volvo awaited me. The traffic was bumper to bumper and we were crawling at a few miles an hour. Barely moving, I gazed out of the window and when I looked back I had shunted almost soundlessly into the car in front. It was one of those prangs where you are not entirely sure the other party has felt it.

I could see there was no mark on the car in front. But it pulled over immediately so I did, too. I jumped out smiling. ‘Gosh, I am sorry,’ I called as the driver got out. ‘But you’re all right. No marks or anything.’ As I checked my car, which was also unblemished, a woman got out of the back seat. She was, and I’m not going to put too fine a point on this, a dead ringer for Waynetta Slob in The Harry Enfield Show. Greasy hair, spotty skin, missing teeth, the lot. She began to cavort in the road like a pantomime dame. ‘Owww! Ooooooo! Oooooooh! Aaaaaaaagh! Me back! Me back!’ she was yelling.

‘Whatever is the matter with her?’ I said to her husband, who stood there limply like a neutered Billy goat.

‘Owwww! Oooh! Aaaaaargh! I’ve got whiplash!’ she screeched. ‘’Ere, I’ve got whiplash, Jim, I ’ave, real bad it is. Owwwwwww! Ooooooooooooo!’ And she clutched her back and staggered about.

‘Excuse me, madam,’ I said, ‘but my car barely touched you. There is not a mark on your vehicle, nor a mark on mine. And whiplash affects the neck, so you might want to grasp that instead of your lower back.’