It's only when I see the turnoff for the A30, and that we're taking the turnoff for the A30, that my concern really develops into alarm. Up to this point Bryn's old Sparrow has, for all its toil, shudder and clatter, just about kept up with traffic around town. The only people in danger have been the pedestrians, at risk of choking on the smoke-cloud we've trailed behind us. Now he's proposing that we brave the dual carriageway in this rubber-band-powered biscuit tin of a car.

On the slip-road, I glance over my shoulder at the cars rocketing past, and immediately wish I hadn't. Bryn floors the throttle, to no obvious effect, and swings abruptly to the right. We lurch into traffic. Horns blare. A lorry roars past at twice our speed, and we rock in its wake. I concentrate on not being sick.

Bryn, though oblivious to our mortal peril, does notice my white knuckles and expression of terror. 'Oh dear, Annie, you don't half look funny,' he shouts over the engine's racket. 'Don't drive this quick in London, I bet!'

'No,' I croak. Relative to you, they really don't.

'Don't you worry, my dear, we'll be off this road dretly.' Bryn gives me a broad toothy grin and pats my arm.

In spite of myself, I relax a bit. There is something inexplicably reassuring about him. He may be a lunatic, but at least he is a lunatic thinking of my feelings.