My childhood adventure from Manchester to Spain 1969

Томкинс Анна

“Phew, that was a close call,” said dad.

“Yes, we just about got away with that one,” agreed mum. Just about, but not quite.

It all happened in a split second, but looking back I remember it in slow motion. The six of us leaning forward, peering up at the sign. The sudden jolt forward as the car behind hit us, not having any reason to expect us to stop so suddenly.

The steering wheel hit dad in the chest winding him. Mum managed to put her hands out in front of her just in time to avoid rearranging her facial features on the windscreen.

On the back seat, the four of us were packed in so tightly there was no chance of any impact injury. Despite that, with the unfailing response of children everywhere to an event they do not fully comprehend, we started screaming our little heads off.

“Wah, wah, wah, wah,” wailed the kids on the back seat.

“My babies, my poor babies,” cried mum.

“Shit, shit, shit,” complained dad, nursing his bruised chest.

The car had been shunted forward about two feet and was now firmly wedged on the overhead barrier. As always happens in such situations, the sleepy little rest area had immediately transformed itself into the car park queue for this year’s Rolling Stones annual farewell concert.

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