Walking on air

Minicab drivers have a bad reputation for being dishonest incompetents and worse — a current poster campaign suggests that if a woman gets into an unlicensed cab she has only herself to blame if she gets raped — but down here in suburban Surrey they couldn’t be more helpful or reliable as I have had recent cause to find out.

Just before Christmas, I skidded on ice in Dorset and my beloved VW Passat slid slowly and graciously into the iron railings of the picturesque bridge that runs over the River Brit in Netherbury. Having just driven off from a standing start, I was only travelling at a few miles an hour and time seemed suspended during my helpless slide across the ice. Then there was a slight crunch followed by something much worse, as the airbags went off, bursting through the dashboard and steering wheel and filling the car with smoke. The bloody things caused so much damage that the insurance company is now considering whether to write off the car.

This would be a disaster, not only because the Passat is the only car I’ve ever owned that I have really loved — it’s got leather seats that actually warm up in cold weather — but also because in my sorrow and confusion I forgot to retrieve the CDs stored in a handy compartment between the front seats when the breakdown lorry came to take the car away.

These are the records I simply couldn’t live or drive without and though almost all of them are replaceable they seem like dear old friends — Live/Dead and Europe ’72 by the Grateful Dead, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers Greatest Hits, best of collections by The Stones, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen and David Bowie, plus a wonderful three-CD ‘ultimate soul’ box set and a selection of cool jazz.