I had a minor road accident while driving with bare feet. Nothing illegal about that, is there?

In my defence, I’d only eaten half a Scotch egg for lunch. Low sugar levels, my friend Holly and I decided later, were almost certainly the reason that I drove into a Range Rover on our journey to Cornwall. It was a narrow road and the lady in front of me wasn’t pushing back her Volvo in a hurry, so I put my car into reverse instead and wiggled towards a lay-by. Oh dear. There was a lot of noise in a few seconds: a “thunk” as my bumper met his, a squeal as I lurched towards the steering wheel, the blaring of a car horn from behind me and, helpfully, a mumbling of “oh God” from Holly in the passenger seat.

It was the sort of Range Rover that celebrities own – vast, black, personalised number plate. Had I just shunted a local star? Gordon Ramsay, perhaps, or Richard and/or Judy? I got out and stood barefooted on the tarmac. My ex-boyfriend insisted that my habit of driving shoeless was illegal, which isn’t true, although it doesn’t lend one much gravitas when facing up to a Range Rover driver.

“I’m so sorry,” I started, as the man bent over the front of his car. “I don’t know how that happened. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” In the panic and fluster, I stuck my hand out to shake his when he stood up. I subsequently wondered if this was the most English moment of my life – hopping about the damp Cornish roads barefoot, apologising, but so conditioned that I still felt the need to introduce myself. “Oh Christ, I’m so sorry,” I yelped again, snatching back my hand as I remembered social distancing. “We’re not supposed to be doing this, are we?”

The whole scene was a Pythonesque shambles, but the man was very nice about it, since his car was unmarked.

Looking up through his windscreen, I spied his immaculate blonde wife squinting at me with curiosity, as if they’d come across the local lunatic.

He handed me a shard of my brake light and waved me away, saying no insurance details were needed. I imagine he wanted to get away as quickly as possible. I climbed back into my car and told Holly I would need a large piece of cake when we arrived at our hotel. I was deeply embarrassed, shaken and never wanted to see another black Range Rover again in my life.

Unfortunately, when we reached St Mawes, it transpired that the man and his wife, plus their three adult children, their daughter-in-law and her baby were staying at the same hotel. We saw them every breakfast and every evening when the jovial cry of “hope you’re not driving tonight!” would float across the bar from their table, although at least I had shoes on by this point.

One morning, Holly and I decided we had to go for a walk even though the rain was coming in great clouds off the Channel. On returning, clothes dripping, as heavy as deep-sea diving suits, there he was, dry and sheltering by the hotel’s main entrance, grinning indulgently as if to say, “I expected as much”.

I reasoned the only thing to do in such circumstances was to smile broadly and try not to die from cringing. Fortunately, I had a few days in Devon after Cornwall to recover, although this wasn’t wholly restorative, since the roads in Devon are even smaller. A much lower Range Rover count there, though, so that was something.

In search 
of a reader who’s on the ball with rules of croquet

When I was younger, my siblings and I used to croquet one another by placing our foot on our ball and bringing the mallet down hard in order that the knock-on effect sent our opponents’ balls skittering into the rose bushes. Apparently this isn’t allowed. Over a long debate in Devon, my host, Jez, settled the argument by reading out the Croquet Association rules.

Turns out, you cannot put any part of your body on your ball while croqueting someone. Is this “no foot on the ball” rule really true and can one ever bend it? I can’t believe my brother and I made it up when small, so it must have come from somewhere. If any reader can lend their expertise, I’d be grateful.

Another sorry chapter in my holiday reading record​

I’m ashamed to report that after 10 days of touring the West Country, I’ve read precisely none of the five books I took with me. My eyes were too big for my brain when I was packing. I carried Harry and Meghan to Mothecombe beach one day, but was distracted by the furious argument a nearby man was having with his small son about putting on sun cream (“don’t call me an idiot, Peregrine!”). I suspect one reads less on UK holidays than foreign jollies. Abroad, one can remain horizontal on a sun lounger for hours at a time; here, our days felt busier, with a demanding croquet schedule, walks and extremely slow driving along those perilous roads. Hardly any time for reading. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.