Fuel Injection

I knew it was his car parked on the opposite side of the station carpark, a monstrous Mitsubishi sports-performance testerone-replacement Tossermobile. I wasn't about to walk over to it. I checked my lipgloss in the rear view mirror, all the time scanning for movement behind me. I was soon rewarded by the sight of an abnormally large floral bouquet bouncing in my direction. I climbed out of the car just as it was about to collide with my bumper.

" For You, Darling, because we could not be together yesterday*" The bouquet, which appeared to be wearing white trainers, the sort that have thick wedgy soles and should never be worn after puberty, thrust itself towards me.

I was horrified. The flowers were the ultimate ostentatious, tryingtoohard statement. I mumbled something that could have been mistaken for thanks as I threw them on my backseat, destined to be an impromptu gift to my mother, who to this day thinks I had been overcome with a sudden desire to thank her for just being her. Behind the bouquet, bobbing above the trainers, was a bomber jacket, distressed tan leather, a rather dated blouson style, inside which lurked a nondescript man of indeterminate age ( he'd said 30, I think that might have been creative).

We'd provisionally agreed to go to York for the day but I already knew I couldn't travel that distance and back with him so quickly suggested Lincoln as an alternative. There was a slightly increased chance that I might bump into someone I knew but the shame of that was far outweighted by the knowledge that I was only ever half an hour away from home.

He handed me his car keys, explaining that as he drove all week, he'd prefer to be a passenger while I took control. I wasn't blind to what he was doing, trying to impress me with his shiny penile propulsion, but I was itching to get behind the wheel. I ignored his not completely unpatronising tone as he assured me that it mattered not if I crunched the gears or kangaroo hopped out of the car park whilst I got used to an unfamiliar and much more powerful vehicle. I smiled gratefully at him, adjusted the seat and the mirror ( the lipgloss was really quite a flattering shade), turned the key and felt the gear shift satisfyingly into place as I simultaneously let out the clutch, tore out of the car park and gave the drive of my life.

I'm not sure if it was shock and awe, or the physical effect of the G force which kept him quiet for the first 10 miles, but it was a good 5 minutes before he spoke, "You, er, you're quite a good driver. Have you been rallying for long?"

Thus the journey to Lincoln passed surprisingly quickly and pleasantly. If only the next hour had.

This post and, quite possibly, the overall story has gone on long enough for one weekend. Can you guess what happened when we did eventually arrive in Lincoln or are you, like me by that time, already starting to lose the will to live?

* 14 February