Was cycling to work one day, down a fairly typical English B road (only just avoided having grass down the middle of it) when I was forced into the ditch by a red (aren't they always?) open topped sports car, which held a screaming blonde tart and a poseur with jet black hair, orange skin and bleach white teeth. He was tearing around the countryside on a road like a sidewinder trail, at about 90mph. Had he slowed down a bit, he would have been able to read the notice that warned of mud on road. He didn't see it. He tore round a particularly hairy S bend that goes down a short but steep hill that is tree lined, but opens up at the bottom. He literally flew over the top of the hill, and round the bend. There was a screeching of brakes, a rending sound of metal on metal, and a piercing scream cut suddenly short.

I carefully steered down the hill, knowing, as I travelled this road every day, that the farmer was moving slurry from the farm at the top of the hill, to the field at the bottom of the hill. The car driver did not know this, and had been travelling at such a speed that he had been unable to stop in the "mud" on the road, and had ploughted neatly into the side of the slurry wagon, which, in the manner of these machines, had jetisoned its cargo into the lap of the screaming blonde and her erstwhile suitor.

I was very late for work, because I had to go and lie down in the field for half an hour before I could even stand, let alone ride my bicycle any further.....

LTS