In 2008 I went on a trip across the world to Australia to visit a friend of mine who had just had a baby. My sister requested that she borrow my most prized possession, my new Vauxhall Corsa that I had only recently bought. I was a little apprehensive; after all it was the most expensive thing I owned, and probably ever will (I have a real issue with the idea of buying a house. It’s the being tied to an area concept, despite the fact I was born and raised less than five miles from where I live today) but I duly agreed. It was insured in her name, and I boarded the flight, leaving my beloved little Betty in my sisters loving hands.
Three days later I got a text message. “there has been an accident with your car.” that was it. As soon as I got the message I tried to cal my little sister, who had turned her phone off as a solution to having any dialogue with me about the state of my car. the phone remained off for four days while I had kittens about the state of my car, imagining that it had been written off and was now crushed somewhere, slowly rusting.
After forty eight hours I got hold of my mother. “ don’t be cross with her she is very worried. She reversed it into a skip.”
Oh. My. Goodness. Any sympathy for her rapidly vanished when I realised it was entirely her fault; there had been no other car to collide with or even any moving object. Nope, my sister had simply not looked, and reversed it into a skip. A large, inanimate object. The knob.