Road rage

We had a lovely time at the weekend marking my brother's special birthday. Inevitably, given our family background and that of my brother's inlaws, the do was at the golf club. My dad and brothers literally (and I'm using the word correctly) built the course and there is even a cup in Dad's name. We have had some good times there.

After lunch the 'boys' in the party, ranging in age from 6 to 58, had a 'nearest the pin', competition. I won't name the winner, but let's just say there's a lot of skill in the up-and-coming generation. Mind you, my older son demonstrated a rather unexpected ability to hold a golf club in both hands, horizontal to the floor, and jump over it. Then there was tea and cake, the latter baked by Mum and decorated by my hubby. The lawnmower was constructed out of sweets and licorice.

The journey home down the motorway was fine except for a minor disagreement with a couple of wazzocks in a Stanair van who took great delight in tailgating me down the A14. I'm not easily intimidated, however. Quite what physical inadequacy the driver was compensating for that he had to bully my 1.2-litre Fiesta I'll leave you to guess.