Card Shark.

The most exciting post I get these days is when I’ve done something special for my friend Cesca, or my mum, as they are both thank-you card types of people. Sometimes my mum puts a little pressie in there too and I get all excited because it’s not a letter from the bank telling me I’ve done something wrong.

And that’s what I used to love about Christmas. Christmas cards galore, flooding my letterbox, the novelty stamp the Royal Mail provide at this time of year stuck in the corner. The proud display all along the mantelpiece. A little bit of news from relatives, a little bit of banter from friends. An impressive array of cards, some fancy, some old fashioned. Some, like my own, from Paperchase.

Ah, Paperchase. Maybe that’s why I love Christmas cards so much. Every year I can’t wait for the excuse to enter it’s glitter filled grottos and browse the tat. I always opt for the charity cards, because I’m such a good egg, but the important thing is the message I’m sending out. (Not Happy Christmas, the other message) ‘I’m the kind of girl who shops in Paperchase. You lucky little recipient.’

Alas, these days, fewer Christmas cards plop onto my doormat. Do I have less friends? Probable. But I blame the internet. It’s ruining my Christmas card collection.

Ok, so there are less trees being chopped down, which is a good thing. But it could be argued that we’ve all got our computers on for longer while we compile these awful, cheesy, sometimes interactive, always deleted Christmas email cards, thus using up more fossil fuels and resulting in the end of the world far sooner than would have happened had we cut down a few trees (and replaced them with new ones – Paperchase is well eco-conscious innit.)

So there you have it. When you compile an e-card (even the term is horrendous) you are bringing about the end of the world. (This is probably not true.) I just got an e-card from someone I do business with. She hadn’t even bothered to address it to me. Instead, it was to ‘Undisclosed recipients.’

Wow, I feel so special. I’m an undisclosed recipient. Thanks so much. Delete.

All those Christmas cards on my mantle piece go one of two ways after Christmas. They either get cut up and used as present tags next year, or if they’ve got a good, funny, personal, loving message from someone special, I’ll put them in my drawer of special things. I’d never actually print out an e-card so they just all get deleted. Where’s the joy in that? My grandchildren won’t get to look through a box of deleted messages one day and look at the beautiful hand writing Aunt Kiki had, or the fancy velvet stars on Amy’s card (she totally out-swanked me this year. I’ll get her back next year. Maybe I’ll up my game and get my cards in Harrods. That’ll show her. I’ll get a 3D card. Glitter will fall into her lap and a butterfly will fly out.)

There are some contenders already for greatest Christmas card given to me. (It’s a yearly contest, FYI.) Because although I’m moaning, some people still send.

Check out these beauties, my top four. Not sure who’ll be crowned the best yet, but the odds are on my future mother-in-law for her genius-ness.

The aforementioned velvet card from Amy. I’m not sure if the velvety goodness comes across here, but trust me, these stars are stroke-able. Oh, and I’ve just checked the back of the card and she only bloody shops in Paperchase too. Course she does! What a legend.

This mildly alarming and eccentric card comes from Peter. Nothing like a card with the words ‘violence, war, terrorism, racism, exploitation and bigotry’ ablazoned on the front to make you feel like it’s time to boil some mulled wine and wrap your presents. Jesus. But he does get a bonus point for it being homemade.

This sexy little number is from Will and Laura. Will works for the Queen so he probably got this card for free. Very regal.

Open it up and what have you got? Only the best picture of 2011! There’s a picture of Will and Kate inside a card from Will and Laura. And I’m not even sure Will and Laura are aware of my infatuation with Will and Kate. Nor are Will and Kate, for that matter, but that’s probably for the best.

And finally, this beauty. It glitters, it’s specifically for a mother’s son and his fiancée, it’s got a swinging bit of gold stuff. It just sums up everything that’s classic about the art of card-giving. Paperchase may do velvet, but Clinton cards know how to do old-school sentiment.

All these cards will find themselves in my special box of memories come January. They’re splendid.

To send me a card and enter my competition (I’ll send a prize to the winner) (I probably won’t) you can attempt to better these. Here’s my address:

Kim Willis
C/o Paperchase HQ
England.

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Charm Offensive

After a day’s sightseeing in Bath, Gareth and I showing off to our London friends, Matt and Emma, just how much green and space and air and fun there is in Bath, we settled on some Yum Yum Thai for dinner.

Having been drinking since lunch time, we naturally ordered a hundred starters and a plate of duck meat each, plus a few bottles of their finest house white. We continued to talk and eat and drink and talk. Times were merry, fun was plentiful.





Somehow, the conversation found it’s way to mathematics. Like it does.

From what I recall, we were accusing Matt of being very good at mathematics and possibly even enjoying it. At that moment, a sweet little Chinese waitress came over to deliver the bill.

I know what you’re thinking – I was in a Thai restaurant, the waitress wasn’t Chinese. But you weren’t there. She was. There’s no rules.

Again, I’m fuzzy on how it happened, but the next thing I knew, I’d been informed by the waitress, who surprisingly wanted to engage with us despite our decibels in an otherwise peaceful dining establishment, that she too was very good at maths.

Right then. CONTEST.

Sober, I could probably have come up with a trickier multiplication. But the first thing that came to my head was: ‘Alright then, Matt, Waitress Lady, what is 22 x 22?’

Now I say that wasn’t very tricky, but even as I type this I’m going to have to get out the old po-cal (pocket calculator yo) and check the answer.

My poor old Dad. All he ever wanted was a maths genius for a daughter. He tried to explain to me a dozen times (a maths term for him there) simple equations for doing multiple mathematics in one’s head. Divide one number, double the other, carry the ten, THINK, WOMAN, THINK! But in my fear of disappointing him, my brain would go into panic mode and literally start melting while I began spurting out my two times table in the vain hope it would impress him. It didn't.

Whenever I have to do maths now, my palms sweat. But I can still dish it out in Thai restaurants to other people, be they strangers or friends.

So where were we? 22 x 22, come on!

Matt looks skyward for a second, his brain doing a little multiply all over it’s own frontal lobe.

Our waitress, on the other very impressive hand, needed no such second. Within an instant, without even a flicker of hesitation, she said ‘484.’

Now, like all good judges, I got my iphone out to check she wasn’t banking on my being too drunk to know if she was right.

And by jove, she only bloody was right.

Suitably impressed, we asked her how she did it. ‘In China, we’re not allowed calculators, we have to learn how to do mathematics quickly, in our heads.’

Wow, that’s some pretty impressive education. Although I guess it meant she missed out on what we all know happens if you type 5318008 into your Casio.

She left the table and we returned to poking fun at Matt for being so stupid at maths he took a split second too long to work it out and got beaten by a girl.

Packing up to leave, we did as all good dinner parties do and discussed the tip.

Inebriated, we decided our waitress would love it if we left her £4.84

But, the worry was, what if she just scooped it up without realising what a meaningful tip it was? That would be a calamity. We didn’t want her to think it was just lose shrapnel. This tip had meaning. It was probably going to be her most meaningful tip of the night, we couldn’t leave unsure as to whether or not she’d notice it after we’d gone.

‘Don’t worry guys, leave it to me,’ I said, putting on my jacket. I do love making speeches, even to an audience of one.

On our way out, I went over to our waitress and said, with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop: 'Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, just wanted to say thanks ever so much for the dinner and the mathematics. We’ve left you a very special present on the table.’

Confident that I was probably the best person in the room at that moment, I patted her on what may have been her head but was intended to be her shoulders, she was very short, and walked out. I think I might have even tried to wink at her.

A few steps from the restaurant old Maths Whizz Matt stumbles upon another great mathematical moment.

‘£4.84, while amusing and in reference to her impressive calculative skills, was less than a 5% tip. She probably would have preferred it if we’d just given her a decent tip.’

Good work Matt. There was I, Mother Teresa, dishing out donations, speeches and winks, and it takes you five minutes to work that out? I take no responsibility for it myself – my palms were already sweating at the thought.

ENDS

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How not to win friends...

I used to like Noah and the Whale, then everyone got wind of what a great little band they were, which put me off somewhat. When one discovers something special, one hopes one can keep the gift a secret from the masses. The last thing I’d want is to like a song at Number One. I’ve got a reputation to uphold here.

(Having said that, I do love Cheryl Cole and I’m not ashamed to say it. Although I think that says more about her hair extensions than her singing.)





Anyway, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. His name is John Robins and one day, when he’s Michael-McIntyre-famous, a stadium sell out mega star, remember that you heard it here first. I liked him back when he compering gigs in Bristol pubs, a comedy whippersnapper.

Cesca (my best mate and his number two fan) and I developed a bit of a crush on JR at the last gig we saw of his a few months back. He’s a local Bristol comedian, so I’ve seen his star rise for a few years now. Indeed once, while hydrated by the intoxicating confidence booster that is gin, I told him post-gig that I loved him and backed him into a corner, literally, while Gareth tried in vain to let him know that when I said I loved him what I meant was, he was highly amusing. Sometimes I get the two mixed up. Because I don’t actually love him, obvs, I’m a loyally engaged woman*, but I do think he’s a very funny man, and funny is attractive. Just look at how well James Corden does for himself. It’s not the belly women are going for, it’s the funny.

*Ryan Gosling would make me reconsider this statement. But Gareth agrees, so that's fine.


Cesca and I were very excited about seeing John Robins again on Friday night at the Hen and Chickens, our local comedy box. We’d both stalked him on Facebook, I’d even gone so far as to befriend him - then sent Cesca a victory screenshot to prove it.

Then I’d cashed in on the fact my sister runs a comedy night by casually mentioning it to him via the safe-stalk which is Facebook. (Hey man, he let us be friends, it’s legal.) It was a low ebb, but what’s a girl to do? JR is the kind of comedian that you sort of feel is your friend. He’s just one of your mates, up on stage, being funny. I have to remind myself that John and I are not actual friends, try as I might. I really ought not even refer to him as John, so casual and familiar as that is. 'Mr Robins' would be more appropriate.

Fast forward to Friday night, and due to my penchant for falling asleep at comedy nights, I have recently made the bold decision not to drink during comedy gigs. The combination of gin, a dimly lit room and a stuffy lack of oxygen, meant even the front row wasn’t a guarantee that I wouldn’t head-nod. See Russell Kane, Lee Evans and Micky Flanagan for examples. I’m like a budgie with a cloth over the cage. Sobriety was an investment in my consciousness.

But, it makes for a slightly less gobby, less confident Kim. Old JR might have been slightly confused that the girl who last time pinned him up against the wall with the force of my banter alone and got so excited when he asked my friends and I if we’d like to join him for pizza that I nearly broke a glass was now too shy to even look him in the eye. (The pizza invite really did happen, I’m not dreaming. Friends did not let me accept the offer, for fear I’d make a tit of myself. I liked them less after that. Stupid friends looking out for me, ruining my chances of being friends with a funny person / making a fool of myself. How dare they.)

Cesca and I were embarrassingly early to the gig on Friday. We even beat the bar staff to the door. At least we had Gareth with us, so I didn’t look too insane. ‘John Robins, John Robins, look, your favourite fans are here, but we’re not mental, we’ve got boyfriends,’ was the kind of message we wanted to get across. Gareth was my token insurance of sanity. Crazy stalkers don’t have boyfriends, JR! Be friends with us!

From said front row seat, I did not fall asleep, hurray, what an achievement. However I was in his direct line of sight when he announced that, sorry ladies, he now had a girlfriend. Bit awkward. But I still think he’s one of the best comedians alive today / love him very much. The line is blurred.

Anyone a fan of Flight of the Concords? That's me. Crazy stalker lady. Husband in tow.

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Girl in a Gold Bricked House

I can be something of an abandoned puppy when Gareth gets called last minute for jobs and leaves me at a loose end. I spend too much time not speaking and then when he returns and I hear his key turn in the lock, I sprint to the door, excitedly chasing my tail and pawing him for attention before he's even had a chance to put his bags down.

Having been left with little ado on Friday night, I was dying to get out and have some fun come Saturday, when he finally got home. We'd been invited out to a friend's birthday party in the snazzy Goldbrick House, Bristol, and I had my glad rags on at the ready.

Perhaps because I'd been a good girl on Friday night and abstained, I went a bit crazy bananas on Saturday night, as if I somehow had license to drink twice as much. And so it was that we'd had too much gin before we'd even arrived at the party. A party at which there were about 40 people, and we knew three. A party at which when we arrived, Gareth declared loudly 'Tom's got a lot of friends,' drawing attention to himself just as he tripped over his own shoelaces, hurtling into a stranger and coming within an inch of colliding with a tray of fancy wine glasses. What an entrance.

It quickly became apparent that Gareth and I were on rather more exuberant form than was in keeping with 8pm in a posh establishment like Goldbrick House, and so should perhaps have had a few soft drinks in order to get in line with the rest of the party.

Instead we continued to drink gin and were hugely disappointed when the party finished and no one wanted to go to a casino and risk their life savings on roulette.

As the party disbanded, Gareth and I made our way back to the clever place we'd earlier parked our camper van, Eddie, all the while congratulating ourselves on how much money we'd saved by bringing our second home and sleeping roadside, rather than paying for a taxi home. We passed the Lizard Lounge, a meat market with a queue of men dressed in togas (because they're absolutely mental) and women wearing clothes I will not be letting my daughter out in. We quickly sobered up. Ah yes, I remember my place in society now. I'm getting on a bit. Young, loutish behaviour annoys me. People dressed in 'fun' clothes. Students. Kebab vans. High heels. Doormen. Chips. Vomit on the pavement. Men in Ben Sherman shirts drenched in Lynx. Shivering women who refuse to wear coats because they Must. Not. Hide. Cleavage. All very annoying.

We got back to Eddie ready for a cosy night and realised we had a) parked on a hill and b) parked outside a nightclub. Great work.

Gareth then proudly got out his pre-prepared empty water bottle. Like a boy scout with a bladder problem he had already cut the top off for easy peeing. He did a wee next to my face and then, lying almost upright, we drifted off to the sound of tomorrow's graduates vomiting, arguing and having sex. The soundtrack to Bristol on a Saturday night. It was very romantic.

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Still Got It...

My best friendship grew from a womb of white wine and poppers. It was born into a loving home of Friday nights that became Saturday mornings, of charging around festivals and congratulating each other on our successful love child – fun. Fun, our baby, grew bigger and better with every passing year. We were very good at fun. If I close my eyes and think back on all the fun we’ve had, moment upon moment of mischievousness, snogging and secret meetings in bath tubs (where we discussed the merits of opening another bottle) fill my mind. Because my best friend and I knew how to party. We were experts.

Yes, there were the bad times too – we’re not just good-time friends. She’s my go-to bird in times of distress and calamity. She’s my soul sister.

But this isn’t about the hard times. It’s about the fun.

The early days of our friendship were a heady whirlwind of hedonism. I don’t know where we put it, but my god did we put it away. One evening, for example, my best friend and I arrived at a pub called the Severn Shed, of Bristol, for a glass of wine. It’s actually more of a really posh restaurant, but for us it was to serve one purpose and one purpose only – wine guzzling.

‘Why don’t we go on a pub crawl and have a glass of wine in each pub?’ Cesca asked, flagging down the handsome wine servant.

‘How about a bottle in each pub?’ I said. We did so love to up the ante.

Fast forward eight pubs and eight bottles and I had made friends with some identical twin men, but could not remember which one I was snogging, while Cesca was blazing a trail of destruction, knocking over entire tables of beer while articulating what was no doubt a really good point. We left many broken glasses and broken hearts in our wake.

That was about six years ago. Cesca has just celebrated her 29th birthday and things are a bit quieter these days. She’s married, I’m engaged, we don’t live together anymore, we try not to drink as heavily. We go to yoga classes and at a festival this summer, it pains me to admit we didn’t even get drunk on the Sunday night. My goodness. The gods of fun were looking down upon us with thunder in their eyes. We were disappointing them and I knew it.

So I invited Cesca on a birthday date. We would go back to the Severn Shed and see if, six years on, we could still have as much fun. It was a loaded invitation – neither of us want to get boring, neither of us want to admit we’re not as mad cap as we once were. We had something to prove to ourselves. Or at least, I did. Cesca is probably much more at peace with sobriety than I am.

We arrived and refused to even look at the menu until we’d polished off a bottle of champagne. Two stark differences to six years ago already – 1) this time we ate and 2) this time we looked at the wine list and picked a posh champagne. Last time was more an eating’s cheating philosophy, barking orders for a bottle of the finest house white.

We mostly talked about our weddings. Cesca, the wise old sage, has had one, so could bestow upon me advice and caution. I am gearing up to mine and so wish to talk about little else and Cesca is one of few people I don’t feel guilty banging on about it to. She took that one for the team when she accepted the role of Chief Bridesmaid.

The wine flowed, so we’re still fun. But did we snog any twins? Did we go on a pub crawl? No, we decided that if fate would have a taxi passing by just as we left, we'd get in and go home. And there was one, so we did.

But wait – before you give up on us, writing us off as past it and better suited to the Women’s Institute than the Institute of Advanced Fun, we weren’t in our slippers drinking hot chocolate by midnight. We stopped off at Cesca’s local for a nightcap.

Here we were served our booze in a brilliant glass. The kind you want in your glass cupboard. The kind my magpie eyes soon had in their sights. The kind to steal, yes.

Now, I’m not proud of it, but back in the day I was a glass thief. Alcohol made me do it. And tonight was no exception. I declared that if we were to be even a patch on our younger selves, we better steal those glasses and run home wildy.

So we did. We even escaped through a gap in the hedge in the pub garden, Jack Bauer style, so as not to have to walk the walk of shame through the pub. I think I might have even done a roly poly.

Job done, I say. We’re still cool.

The next day I got a text message from my best friend, the former hell raiser.

‘Thanks for a great night. I’ve just taken the glasses back to the pub. Luckily they saw the funny side.’

That’s right. Where once we were hooligans, thieves and trouble makers, now, we dutifully return stolen goods the next day and order nice wine over dinner.

Now would be the time to make a poetic point about how much richer our lives are these days. We're older and wiser. We had something missing from our souls before, and alcohol filled that void. Balderdash! Allow me to pimp out Cesca for a night on the tiles with you and you'll soon see what all the fuss is about. If I could have my way our full time jobs would be to party together.

But as we reluctantly enter the next chapter of our lives, with fine wines, productive Saturdays and god, maybe even children, at least we can be safe in the knowledge that we had more than our fair share of fun.

And just to keep the spice alive, I’ll be encouraging my kids to steal glasses from pubs but Auntie Cesca will be allowed to return them. After all, there is fun, and then there is just plain stealing.

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Bye Bye Branson

Hello world. I have just come out of a long term relationship – with Richard Branson – and I feel wonderful.

I’ve known for a long time that I was in the wrong relationship. All the signs were there – my friends kept telling me to leave him and my mother disapproved. Plus I didn’t like his beard.

Other suitors would call me up occasionally to see if I couldn’t be tempted to stray. Yet for reasons unbeknown to me, I stayed, despite his abusive nature. I stuck it out for FOUR YEARS. I stood by him when he wouldn’t take my calls, when he’d put me through to call centres so far from the UK that his assistants didn’t even speak English.

Relationships are supposed to make you both grow and develop as people. I grew into someone who could spend an hour on hold, plotting ways to bring down the entire Virgin empire. Branson did not listen to my suggestions about how he could be a better person. The fool.

Every time he hung up on me,cut my internet or charged me £5 for watching porn that I wasn’t watching, I thought, this is it, I can’t take anymore, I’m going to BT.

But changing service provider just seemed like such a faff. So I stayed. I took the abuse. I was a fool.

Now, like all the other customers British Telecom advertise about, I’m going back to BT. And I love it. I no longer have to spend my life furious at Branson and everything he stands for. He’ll continue to be shit, I just don’t have to know. He can take his poor standards and terrible customer relations elsewhere, because I’m out.

Wonderfully, even as I let him know I was leaving, he let me down. As if I needed further convincing that I was doing the right thing. I pressed all the buttons for getting through to the people who deal with break-ups and then got told by an automated voice that I had to go on hold while an operator was found.

The super cool and friendly automated voice then told me that while I waited, I could press one for pop, two for R n B. bla bla bla. Six for classic. Wow, am I sure I want to leave? I don’t think BT give musical options while you wait. Virgin are so cool. So down with the kids. I wish I could be more like a Virgin, with your musical options and your overtly friendly automated voice.

Being a Radio 4 listening, piano playing knob head, I pressed six for classic. Ah, Branson, well done, the dulcet tones of JLS burns into my ear.drum Yes, Everybody In Love was a classic I suppose, but it’s hardly Mozart.

With that, my decision was made even easier. Don’t show off that you’ve got musical options when you clearly haven’t. Just chuck the elevator music on like everyone else and get on with finding an actual human being to answer the phone.

Goodbye Richard Branson, goodbye Virgin Media. I will not miss you. I’m off to find someone else to write stern letters to.

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The Sound Of Da Police.

Whenever I am overtaken by a siren–swirling, lights-flashing police car, the first thing I do is make sure I’m not doing anything illegal. Then they zip on past and I realise I am not the culprit this time, so thoughts turn to hoping that whatever crisis they are attending isn’t on my route. Which is an awful thing to admit, but yes, that’s what I think. Carnage up ahead? I hope it’s not on the M4.

I do love moving aside for the emergency services though. It’s exciting. For that split moment you are working with the emergency services. Come on lads, go forth and rescue – I’ll just move onto the pavement momentarily! I know it’s a legal requirement to move aside when you hear those sirens or see those flashing lights, but it always warms the cockles of my heart that we do it. A little nod of respect to the people who clear up after us.

So I joined the M4 and quickly realised that unfortunately, yes, the police car was on its way to attending to the carnage on my route.

Another police car raced up the hard shoulder.

But I didn’t mind. I joined the standstill and immediately turned off my engine like the dutiful little do-gooder that I sometimes am.

Two more police cars. Three police motorbikes. Then an ambulance. Another police car. Highway maintenance. A paramedic. Another ambulance. Two fire engines. Then a helicopter circled overhead before landing in the field adjacent to the crash. Crikey. It was all kicking off.

Like a scene from an end-of-the-world movie, people fled from their cars. Well, fled is a bit strong. Got out to get a better look, is more apt. Strangers spoke to each other. For international readers, that does not happen here in Engurland.

The crash was in sight. Just a mere 500 metres away, I could see the flashing lights of the fire engines from my seat. It must have only just happened. The hairs on my arms stood on end as I thought that if I had not stayed an extra minute at my sister’s house, it could have been me.

I watched as the strangers spoke to each other. Moaning about the delay. Tutting and shaking their heads. Looking at their watches. Peering up ahead as if the extra inch tiptoes provide will give the necessary conclusion to their crash related theories. Making emergency phone calls ‘Darling, I’m going to be late for dinner. Some idiot’s had a crash.’

Ouch. Bit harsh.

I, I’ll have you know, did nothing of the sort. I played Sudoku on my phone and thought about how much I love the emergency services.

Instead of getting annoyed that someone had been in a clearly serious accident, I got annoyed – irate, even, with the petrol guzzling 4x4 next to me, the driver of which, Sloane Ranger, did not turn her engine off for FORTY FIVE MINUTES. I wanted to get out of my car and march up to her, to suggest that maybe she’d like to reduce her carbon footprint and turn off her noisy engine, seeing as we clearly weren’t going anywhere and keeping her engine running wasn't going to get her home any quicker.

But I didn’t. I just quietly plotted her demise while Sloane Ranger’s children scrambled all over the roof of her car and took pictures of the crash on their iphones. Over and over again, she threatened: ‘If you do that one more time I’ll smack you.’ Yet every time they did the thing one more time, no one got smacked. Except my sanity. That took a beating.

Some Arrogant Scurriers then decided to take crowd control into their own hands, siphoning off into the hard shoulder in an attempt to excuse themselves from waiting.

Oh my god! Are you mental? You’re getting in the way! An ambulance screeched to a halt behind some Mercedes-driving nimrod who had thought they were above the law. Sirens went from ne-na ne-na to a furious WA WA WA WA WA WA WA and then a kind of deafening pitch that they obviously reserve for times like this. Forget rubber necking the accident – the real action was over here on the hard shoulder. Old nimrod had to shimmy up the grass bank to get out of the way, while we all laughed at him. Or at least, I did a little smirk. I don’t know if I had any comrades. Sloane Ranger was too busy issuing empty threats to her spoiled brat children to notice the drama unfold.

Another paramedic.

A police car.

The helicopter took to the skies, bypassing London’s traffic as it made its way to the nearest hospital. I was truly humbled.

I thought back to the early days of civilisation and how emergency services must have evolved. The tribes people were going about their day when suddenly a hut was on fire. Some people screamed and ran for the hills. Others stayed and gawked. While others, the future emergency services, rose to the challenge. They brought pails of water, they rescued babies.

‘Wow, you were quite handy then,’ the chief of the village debriefed. ‘Would you mind being on standby in case we get in a pickle again?’

And the future emergency service people said yes, we will do that. ‘But just one stipulation,’ they said. ‘When we are needed, you lot get the hell out of the way. And don’t use the hard shoulder, for Christ’s sake.’

That is probably exactly as it happened in 250AD. Verbatim.

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