This was one of those occasions. Yet another party in north London where I said, “I’ll have one more, and that’s it. I’m driving,” more times than I can remember.
 

I lurched my way to the car, a rather flash BMW Z3 Roadster of which I used to be proud, but now wince at the thought of. It was only two-hundred-odd yards from the door, but I stopped on the way to embrace a lamp post and light a cigarette.
 

Once cocooned in its leather interior I felt at one with myself, my machine and the journey home. I pressed a button to wind down my window and puffed smoke out into the November air.
 

Starting the engine, I switched on the heating. I was in no hurry, so I sat for a while mulling over the evening’s events. Yes, I had insulted the hostess, but only to the extent of asking why she hadn’t bothered to dress up for the party – oh God, why do I do it? Still, I hadn’t thrown up anywhere, indoors at least, my usual trick.
 

I was ready for the off. I firmly engaged first gear and swung sharply out of my parking space – narrowly missing a wretched cyclist who came out of nowhere from behind with low batteries on her lights.
 

Streuth! I could have got done for an accident – contributory negligence or what?! Somewhat fired up with self-righteous indignation, I put my foot down and felt the joy of firm handling and the chill air through my window.
 

All was tickety-poo. Alpha male rules okay . . . until . . . a lovely long straight tempted me up to a heady 60 mph when what I thought were a couple arguing appeared directly in front of me. Par for Saturday night. They clearly saw me and moved onto the pavement to continue their tiff.
 

Then something happened – their tussling returned them to the middle of the road.
 

What could I do? I jammed on the brakes, my ABS system kicked in and I juddered to what I thought was a halt. I must have been wrong.
 

The next thing I was aware of was the ghastly rictus-like grimace of a woman’s face pressed against my windscreen, a mad desperation and anger in her eyes.

No blood - just her.
 

She seemed stuck their for eternity, but it can’t have been more than a second or two before she slid off the bonnet to the right and disappeared from my vision.
 

Christ! What in Hell’s name have I done?
 

I glanced right. A hand, I guess her boyfriend’s – whatever – with a brick in it waved two feet from my face. And my window was still open to the night air.

I floored the accelerator. Bump, bump – oh fuck, the legs!
 

I drove and I drove and I drove, where I don’t know, for ten minutes of agony.
 

Finally I stopped, and burst into tears. My life was gone. My wife, my children, they would have to visit me over God-knows how many years. Selfish, I know, but I was too numb to think about my victim.
 

I don’t know how long I sat there shivering before the inevitable – blue lights, sirens, the works.
 

“Hello Sir, have we been drinking?”

"Is she all right?"

"I'm sorry, Sir?"
 

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
 

“I said, have we been drinking?”
 

“Yes, yes, yes – what does it matter now?”
 

“Was you involved in an incident three and a half miles south of where we are at present, Sir?”
 

“Of course I was – God forgive me! I don’t know what to say – what happens now?”
 

“What happens now? Nothing, Sir. It’s your lucky night – this is a scam that has become known to us of late. They’re after damages, you see?”
 

No I didn’t see.
 

“So how long will I get?”
 

“You won’t get nothing, Sir. But if I could advise – call a cab from here, eh? And, by the way, yes she's all right, as right as rain - back at the station as it happens, Sir."”
 

The officer smiled in a benevolent way, as if he had total control over Life, over Death, and retired to his vehicle.
 

I waited till the blue lights vanished on their way to the next incident.
 

My gut tightened, the sweat gushed from my forehead.
 

I threw up all over myself and my plush interior – never had the texture and smell of vomit felt so much like exquisitely sweet honey as it did then.