"What, those ones as you come into the car park?" Darren asks, fumbling with his draw strings. I am too wound up to even accuse him of fiddling with himself, which is pretty much compulsory Advanced Changing Room Repartee.
"Yes," I sizzle.
"The little yellow ones? The ones on the left? The ones you can barely see?"
"Yes. What, have you done that too?"
"I nearly did, but then I didn’t because I’m not a twat."
After the match, Darren and I stand in the snow examining my dented front wing. Darren squawks with laughter
"You complete twat," he says, enjoying himself, perhaps thinking back to my lack of sympathy – nay, my triumphant crowing – a few months back when he rear-ended one of the bosses’ husband.
"Well, one of the positives about me being as old as you constantly like to remind me of, is that insurance companies no longer hate me, and I won’t have to pay a penny. Not like the £250 you had to pay when you rear-ended the boss's husband the other month." I raise my voice for that last bit. Making people feel bad about themselves makes me feel good about myself.
"I bet I crash the courtesy car," I muse.