J drove us home from the restaurant. M sat in the front passenger seat, my father behind him, and my mother took the middle of the back seat.

From my position behind J it soon became obvious that she was not the best choice of driver. She sped through small rural towns at top speed, ignoring my pleas to slow down. It was inevitable that there would soon be an accident. First she clipped a blue Capri, but refused to stop to inspect the damage. When she took out a white minibus she had no option but to pull into the verge and call the police.

“I’m a slut” she announced down the phone. It was only then that I realised that she was drunk.

“I only had a quarter of a glass of white wine” she claimed.

“More like half a bottle” my father muttered.

I wondered how she would cope with her rural lifestyle when her licence was confiscated.