It was still dark at 4:00am when I turned the key in my red Peugeot 205 to drive it up the hill past the community centre and round the corner to the village car park. This was the easiest place to complete a turn without blocking the main road.

Another driver entered the car park at the same time.  As I made my turn, I clipped his vehicle pulling into a parking space. Then I nudged a parked car on my way back out on to the street. This car then took out another one. Now there were three cars heading down the hill, the two at the front driverless.

What a disaster! I pulled into the right hand side of the road to bring my car to halt next to the park railings. I then readied myself to face an angry mob of neighbours.

One, a police officer, instantly started treating me like a criminal caught at a crime scene. It was when she started photographing my car that I realised that perhaps I was not responsible for my dreadful driving. The car looked in much worse condition than I kept it. Had joy riders been out in it without my knowledge, or someone else tampered with it overnight?

I was desperate to get home to wake my husband and tell him everything. He would sort it all out. He was David Tennant, after all.