A moron on a moped drove me off the road on Christmas morning...

WE KNEW there’d be transport chaos over Christmas thanks to the train strikes, so London felt like the best place to gather. We’d all use our cars. There’d be very little traffic in the city and parking was unlikely to be a problem. It was agreed we would meet for Christmas Day at the home of my older son Ed’s brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Matt and Maeve. They were favourites because they have two little boys: Ted is nearly five; Sam nearly three. They’re the only little ones in our extended family and Christmas never has the same magic without children who are excited about Father Christmas and are delighted to be the centre of attention.

I didn’t have to worry about the food — my only responsibility was champagne and good red wine. Beef was on the menu.

I packed everything into my lovely new Mini, trotted the dogs who’d be going to our neighbour, dressed, did my hair, put on make-up (must make an effort on this special day) and settled into the car for the longish journey from extreme North to extreme South London. Heating on, heated seats on, Waze, the navigating app, giving directions and off I set.

Three quarters of a mile later, with no traffic on the A1, and doing just under 40mph — well within the speed limit — I spotted a motorcyclist roaring up behind me. As he began to pass me, he veered violently to the left. Good Lord, I thought, he’s going to hit me. Taking the only sensible evasive action, I too veered left. There was quite a high pavement. The grinding noise was horrific. Meanwhile, he simply sailed on with no regard for me.

For sure, he was a delivery driver, probably rushing to his next job. Perhaps he was driving badly, wobbling all over the road, after over-indulgence on Christmas Eve.

There was a large box on the back of the bike with no company name, so no way I could make a complaint later. I couldn’t read his licence plate. He went by too fast.

When I’ve explained the incident to people, no one has a good word to say for these young men zooming around, making deliveries with no concern for anyone else on the road. ‘They’re a menace,’ is the collective opinion, with which I, in my fury, could not agree more. I was angry and also rather shaken. I anticipated two punctured tyres and Christmas Day at home alone. I could have wept.

I rolled slowly to the nearest petrol station and, sure enough, there were two ripped tyres, both flat as a pancake. Even if the Mini had had a spare, which, of course, it doesn’t, it wouldn’t have been a help. I needed two!

I called Ed who was sympathetic but powerless. I called the rAC. I’ve been a member for years. ‘Oh no,’ I was told. ‘your cover is for breakdown, but you’ve had an accident. We can’t help today.’ My suspicion is that the ‘today’ was the most significant word. I wasted ten minutes trying to argue with a closed mind.

Ed was insistent I should ask the petrol station guys if it was OK to leave my precious car there overnight and get a cab. ‘Don’t worry about the expense. Just do it.’ And thus, I transferred the presents into a taxi, locked up my baby and arrived at my destination an hour and a half later and 65 quid poorer.

Gosh, I’d forgotten how energetic small boys can be. Games I’d brought were played immediately and everyone had to join in. And, oh dear, the lollipops were opened and sucked with relish. There was an inevitable sugar rush, but those cheery, funny little lads made me begin to think life was worth living again. They were a real tonic.

We sat down to the most wonderful lunch and I celebrated the fact I could enjoy the champagne and wine because I didn’t have to drive home. Then we had to face the looming problem. I needed to get the motor fixed in order to drive to my second son on Boxing Day. Everyone chipped in with suggestions, but there wasn’t enough room to stay over and I needed to get back for the dogs.

A local taxi offered to take me for £120. We said no. I gave Uber a try. It worked. Not cheap at £50, but he arrived in good time and my Christmas Day was over.

Ed had managed to find an emergency tyre repair company online. They agreed to come on Boxing Day morning, but I would need to let Kevin the repairer know the size of the tyres to make sure he had the right ones. At 8am a local taxi arrived to take me to the car — another £13 to travel no distance. I was relieved to find my Mini still in place and undamaged. I sent a picture of the tyres to Kevin who said he was very busy, but he’d be there in 20 minutes.

He did exactly what he said he would and half an hour later I was on the road. No damage to the chassis, two new tyres and another £300 worse off.

A much more expensive Christmas than I’d anticipated all because of an incompetent delivery driver. Maybe think of that next time you order a takeaway. Don’t say you’re in a hurry for it or another motorcycle menace might ruin someone else’s day, or even risk his life. That’s me trying to be sympathetic to the moron who gave me so much grief. Not easy to find any seasonal goodwill for him.

Now as trains can’t be trusted and traffic is a nightmare, I’ll maybe take the advice of Network rail to not bother travelling anywhere till January 9.

Happy New year to you all.