My mother’s Volvo was not a self-driving car, yet when the whole the family was crammed into the back seat, we treated it as such. I was terrified as we sped through the countryside at top speeds, praying that the car would know how to negotiate bends in the road.
By the time that we reached our destination, I had managed to climb into the driver’s seat and parked the car (albeit badly) in the town square. It was a very tight fit next to a huge blue van, so I was not surprised when a plain-clothed policeman approached me. He couldn’t understand my pleas to be treated kindly – because he was not an officer of the law after all, but the family solicitor.
The solicitor walked us through town and up to his magnificent office. This castle-like building offered impressive views of the north east coast of the Isle of Skye, including the Old Man of Storr, the Kilt Rock and the Quiraing. I was less impressed, however, when I saw the outfit of my middle sister. She seemed to have raided my 1990s wardrobe to find something suitable to wear at the meeting. The crumpled skirt and top, combined with dusty navy blue sling-back sandals, did not fit the bill.