I had to turn down the brightness on the laptop monitor before I started typing; it has been that kind of an evening. The screen almost looks brown, but perhaps that's the whiskey and smoke. I've no serious injuries or death of which to speak just one or two hideously chaotic near misses, but there are tales to be told and why they are fresh in the head I shall tell 'em - if it pleases you to do so, then read on.

I'll go back at some point soon and look for the tyre marks. The screech, the smoke and bending of the chassis as I careered to the right with no regard for any dotted white line is filling me with horror as I recall it. Before writing that I'd been forced to lift my hand and cover my eyes in some a vain attempt to blind myself from the visualisation of the memories playing over it my head. I'm not sure what I was thinking about as I braked, skidded, turned a steering wheel, pulled a car out of a slide and then caught stare of a fully 'antlered-up' deer as it slid first inches away from my bonnet and then my left rear wing, but it wasn't what I was doing and what was happening. That was all instinct. I have however been thinking about that split second period since, along with the events that lead up to it and those that transpired shortly afterwards.

If it had been a bad day with bad weather I wouldn't have the luxury of being here to write this, the deer would certainly not be a living character in anything. Suffices to say it had been a dry, sunny, spring day. However, with the barrage of good fortune that have plagued me this last year - I should not be surprised to be telling a true story with a happy and complete resolution. Perhaps to give the scene and background more flesh, details of the one of the other surviving, long suffering characters of this tale should be for-warned upon you. Step-in (or rather drive-thru) the state of the art computer controlled masterpiece of a vehicle capable of sharp turns at a moments notice as described above. It cost £400, 9 months ago off a mates neighbour. It's a white Vauxhall Astra estate made before people put curves on cars less than £20,000; her name is Bertha (with the subtitle of shaggin' wagon ). She came with an MOT, I've checked the oil, added water when it was hot and antifreeze when it was cold. Given the tyres an occasional kick and they've always seemed all right. Tonight Bertha saved lives and retained a finely tuned sense of karma.

The first obvious place to have not got involved in any mischief at all would have been not to have left the house - or better yet stayed in bed. As usual the demands of others if not myself made this an impossibility. 'Breado' of the brown jam fam,

had 'no credit'* and couldn't call the man who might have the contraband, so I drove up to his country lodgings,at yonder brown hall, complete with a means of mobile telecommunication. Bertha behaved admirably as I swept her out of the drive, wheel span away from my residence, the DB, out into the wilds of suburbia. I dislike driving through built up areas when it is unnecessary, that is to say if your original location and destination are the other side of a town (as in a trip to the brown hall )- I am disposed to drive around. Quieter roads with scenery, less drunkards likely to throw a bottle at your moving vehicle, no prying eyes of fluorescent friends with mobile CCTV units and the all new advantage of back roads - a closeness with nature that rivals any Attenborough documentary.

Bertha and I wound our way up through the hedge-lined lanes with overhanging trees tunnelling up to the brown hall. I abandoned her in the drive and banged loudly on the door - as a note instructs one to do so. Bread came down to answer and immediately seized the opportunity of the mobile phone signal improvement that somehow comes with being outside. He called in to see if we could get some contraband. Response: It might happen - call back in a bit. Inside the brown hall Biggo's eating fish...the ketchup has it's own bowl. ...Breado's skinning-up...there is ludicrously amateurish crime on TV...and before long we are calling back... It's on, well he can do a couple but it's his last so it'll be pricey, innit , but we're off - get some more cash out on the way.

Bertha's back on the country lanes - one of which conveniently is where I'm dumping Breado, complete with cash, to bring back contraband. We arrive after a half hour drive -   it's no ordinary lane - five or six cars engage in what appears to be a synchronised movement, perhaps a dance, with headlights blazing and bodies moving both in and around the cars. I stop short of the mêlée Bread removes himself from my car and strides into the madness, undaunted. I fly past swing round in a dead-end and return via a slow crawl to collect Bread complete with contraband. We are off - as was everybody else - things had got crowded and there was only one road in and out. We went out. Back to the DB - contraband in hand.

*This terminology is synonymous with a youth culture dependant on mobile telecommunication devices. Primarily these devices are financed by one of two means - a fixed contract and payment scheme or a pre-pay 'top up' - 'pay-as-you-go'- 'use or don't use - it's up to you' type thing. Breado has the latter, but 'he don't get paid till Friday so...' he hadn't had the necessary finances to top up his balance - hence - 'no-credit', so no outgoing calls, no outgoing text messages, probably couldn't even check his voicemail.