The Perils of Penelope

After a late meeting in Romsey on Friday night, I started the drive home at about 12.15am. There were pockets of mist on the dark, country lanes, it was cold and a wee bit spooky, and I was in the car on my own. As I reached the village of Hursley, a man appeared in the middle of the road. I slowed the car down a bit, but he still didn't move. I veered to the left. He moved to the left. I veered to the right, so did he. I couldn't drive on without potentially hitting him, or mounting the kerb.


I didn't have much choice but to slow down to a crawl, at which point he loomed over the bonnet and then tried to open the car door. It was at this point that fear turned to bloody minded anger. I could literally feel a wave of it surge up from the pit of my stomach which only seconds before had turned to pure jelly. I bawled "no you don't!" in what I hoped gave the impression of a redoubtable middle aged lady in possession of a very heavy and potentially lethal handbag. I shoved the car in reverse and pressed the pedal as hard as I could. I expect I zigzagged across the road, but at least I did it at speed!

Because he'd had to move over to the side of the road to get at my door, this left the rest of the road clear so I got the heck out of there.

Now, I think the young man in question was the worse for wear. But even so. You don't expect to stumble across something not unlike a scene out of "American Werewolf in London". You know, the bit when they're on the moor, near The Slaughtered Lamb pub.

You don't get werewolves near Winchester and I jolly well hope it remains that way.

I was shaken, but not stirred.

(This week, in between defending myself from lunatics at midnight, I have been mostly reading The Aviary Gate and trying to crochet an alpaca).