A former writing student of mine had the entire class in stitches with her tale about an accident whilst she lived in Italy.  One of those freakish events which you can never truly believe even if you were involved.

        She was driving around (alone) in a small Fiat - with the sunroof open - and priding herself on the fact that as well as speaking the language fluently she had also learned to drive like a native Italian.  Definition?  There are no lanes or correct sides, merely openings into which you drive as fast as humanly possible.

        To cut a long story short she 'squirted' into a gap just as a lorry decided to do the same at right angles to her.  In the collision her Fiat stood on its nose and ejected her through the open sunroof.

        She landed the other side of the lorry, bruised but not too badly damaged, but was mortified 'as only an Englishwoman can be' to find herself naked from the waist down, surrounded by beeping traffic and gawping Italians.

        Even when they found her skirt, tights, and knickers in the car, where they had been deftly peeled away as she shot through the sunroof without leaving more than a light graze here and there, her helpers were - in her own words - 'robustly sympathetic'.  They were cursing her 'lover' who, they were convinced, had crashed the car in a moment of passionate distraction and then run away to leave her to face the consequences.

       I believe her.  It's so far-fetched it has to be true.  I also had a lift in her car after one evening class, and sampled Italian style driving on narrow Cornish lanes.  It very nearly scared the pants off me too.

       Gyppo