THERE was nothing I enjoyed more in the late 1940s than going for a ‘spin’ in the countryside with my parents and my younger brother in our open-top tourer.

One lovely summer afternoon my father was driving us at his usual reckless pace through the narrow, hedge-lined, winding lanes that criss-cross the Romney Marshes.

Approaching a blind bend dad had to slam on the brakes as another open-top car, being driven at high speed by a stout elderly lady in tweeds, came flying towards us on the wrong side of the road.

Swerving violently - narrowly missing us - she looked at dad and bellowed “pig,” as she disappeared into the distance.

As we started moving again, my mother, visibly shaken, observed to dad: “ The cheek of it. It was her fault, she was on the wrong side of the road and going much too fast”.

A few seconds later we rounded the bend ....... only to be confronted by a huge pig, lying contentedly in the middle of the road!


Norwich Avenue West, Bournemouth