My brush with death

Or why it's an exceptionally bad idea for a woman of a certain age to be driven in a bumper car by a six-year-old

It seemed  like a good idea at the time. Two grandsons, each wanting to drive his own dodgem. Smaller boy too short to be allowed on his own, so of course Granny steps in. Into the car, that is. So far, so good.

Well, not exactly.  For off we set, hurtling round the track, usually in the opposite direction to everyone else. I'd forgotten that the word "bumper" was the vital clue to what would happen next, but happen it did. We careened into other cars at phenomenal speed, richocheting off the sides, swerving, banging...Whiplash City. If I tried to take the wheel, the small driver said no. He was driving (well, that was the deal), so I tried shutting my eyes, which was even worse. I prayed for all this to stop, but our turn seemed to go on for ever. At times, I thought I was going to die. Really.

Afterwards, as he bounced off towards the next  attraction, I stumbled out into waiting arms of husband.

"But you looked as though you were enjoying it!" said he.

"That," I said, "was a rictus of fear." Deep breath. "Now. What shall we do next?"