Gone...

What also soon became clear to me was that I’d got more relaxed living in Australia. In England it goes like this: one day, there I was driving along the M40 and as it comes up towards London you enter this gorge lined by chalk cliffs. It’s a steep upward slope and anything with more weight than an aluminium drinks can loses speed really quickly. So vans and trucks and buses should always be in the left-hand lane so you can go past them. Trouble is, in England they have this phenomenon known as White Van Man. White Van Man drives, well, a white van, and there are thousands of them on British roads. The thing is this, he has the equivalent of a Spitfire engine under the bonnet, or at least that’s what he thinks. These white vans can go at terrific speeds, especially on the motorway where they will tailgate you for miles and miles until you let them past so that they can warp-speed away into the distance. The only time you ever catch up with them is when they have an accident further up the road. So you see them again quite often. And there are White Van Man dopple-gangers spread right across Europe. In Germany they have VW Polo Man, in France there’s Renault Clio Man, in Spain it’s The SEAT Man, and in Italy, well they’re all just called Italians.
So, this White Van overtakes me just at the start of the steep hill and I’m thinking, why is he doing this because pretty soon he’s going to be...uh-oh and then he just pulls right in front of me, so close I can smell his aftershave (and it does not smell good, let me tell you) and I have to yank my steering wheel hard over and go past him because he has pulled up sharper than a crash dummy.
As I go past I shake my head at this particular fool - that’s all I do. Well, big mistake. The challenge is on. See, I’d been away too long. I’d forgotten that the worst thing you can do in England is make eye contact with a fellow road user. They see it as some kind of challenge. And bear in mind that I’d done nothing wrong. Anyway, I get to the top of the hill and the road levels out as it goes towards High Wycombe and Marlow and I look in the mirror and White Van Man is coming up behind me. Fast. I accelerate - you have to because if you wait for him he’ll just glue himself to your bumper and follow you home, even if you live in Marseilles.
By the time I’m up to 90 mph, which is about as fast as my diminutive hire car will go, he is still some way behind but he’s gaining. I put the pedal flat to the floor and the car does not leap forwards, the engine does not roar, the speedo does not show any upward movement. Anyhow, by now I am thinking about evasive action. An English friend of mine told me this same sort of thing happened to him once and eventually what he did was drive off the motorway and race into a housing estate and execute an elaborate and noisy handbrake turn in a quiet cul-de-sac. One minute he’d been casually driving home from work, the next he’s in a life or death situation. Pulling up, jumping out in the encroaching darkness, reaching into the boot of his car, waiting to see the lights of his pursuer’s ire, hefting a baseball bat in his hands.
"I didn’t know you played," I’d said, and he’d looked at me like I was simple. "Mate, everyone has a bat in the boot now." In my friend’s confrontation the other bloke took the hint and didn’t want to come out and play. I assume he’d left his own bat at home, otherwise no doubt they would have duelled there and then in Acacia Avenue, the click-clack of American baseball bats echoing in a sleepy Surrey backwater as night fell. I suppose the day will come, and probably it’s not that far off, when your British car tool kit will include a solid wooden baseball bat, nestling in there amongst the spanners, screwdrivers and wheel wrench.
My very own White Van Man was almost upon me but when I snatched a look in the mirror he’d gone. I panicked. He must be alongside me! I whipped my head around. He wasn’t. I looked over the other shoulder to see if he was creeping up on me from the nearside, or even hurtling along the hard shoulder. But he wasn’t there either. I breathed a sigh of relief. He’d obviously peeled away up the last off ramp, searching for other prey.
So you see, there’s little time to relax on a trip to Britain. Soon as you get there it’s all go. Except of course when you go to a funeral.