So, there I am, in my company car chasing after our own Fiat Uno wearing nothing more than a pair of underpants, trainers and the best determined look I could muster. At home my wife had begun the process of reporting the situation to the police. Our car had been stolen from outside our house, originally driven by a blonde haired man and now by a completely different person: and sex. I’d reached the top of the lane but the car was nowhere to be seen so I decided to turn left and ‘cruise’ around the village, gingerly making my way down towards the other end of the High Street. At that time of the morning everything is eerily quiet. Then, in the distance, I spotted our car parked again, the driver presumably waiting to be joined by her accomplice in order that they may make good their escape back to wherever they’d come. Blind anger is the only way of describing my feeling at that point as I rammed the car into second gear and slammed my foot down hard on the accelerator. After only a second or two she spotted me coming and began driving off. However I’d already reached an obscenely high speed when I crashed into the back of the moving Uno. The Fiat was not yet disabled as I braked hard, reversed, and then shot forward again hitting the spinning car on its front wing. Both vehicles were adequately yet unfortunately destroyed and stationary. Not only that, but I’d gone full circle around the village and amazingly managed to right-off both our cars directly outside our house. I could even hear our Jack Russell terrier barking in response to the commotion. “So, where is your husband at this moment?” asked the police officer on the phone. “Well, judging by the crash I’ve just heard I’d say he’s just outside”, my wife replied. A milk float had arrived on the scene. The milkman looks on bemused as this scene was played out in the still morning air. I approached the Uno somewhat cautiously. Despite everything I wanted to make sure that the driver didn’t need medical attention. The smell of alcohol and body odour inside the car seemed to have intensified. I needn’t have worried. She looked more than fine as I decided to confront her once more in the sure knowledge that that car was going nowhere. “What the hell do you think you’re doing” were my words as I opened the driver’s door. She sat there motionless again, staring straight ahead, but this time her expression had changed to one of anger. Then, without warning, she was out of the driver’s seat as I began to back away. A crow bar had found its way into her right hand as she began walking towards me. Somehow I don’t think she wanted to discuss the well tooled manufacturing process of the aforementioned implement. What happened next has remained a mystery from that day until this.