I felt like the world was out to get me one day last week. Coming back from London last week I joined the M1 from the M25. Those here who have driven that will know that it's always great fun, lanes merging left, right and centre. As if the normal hazards of motorways merging wasn't enough, some #!@%$& in a ridiculously big green 4x4 affair decided that the best way to merge was to get in the outside lane as quickly as possible. Right where I was. I had to swerve out of his way, across the rumble strip and into a bit of light gravel. I also felt it an appropriate time to check that my horn was functioning correctly

That was the closest I'd been to an accident, and it probably wouldn't have been a particularly fun one, either. My heart was racing and my legs felt all wobbly and flaccid.
And then, THEN! It almost happened again. The inside lane of the M1 between J9 & J10 is effectively one long slip lane. It's a good four miles long or so. So why, when I was happily trundling along it did Mr. 1963 Scabby Camper Wagon decide that the one mile gantry was the best time to swerve into the slip lane? Horn? Check. Brakes? Check. Nerves? Fail.
When I got home, I needed several cups of tea to put me right.