Every year for as long as I can remember, I have been attacked by a stranger between June and August. This year's incident happened over a parking space, after I cheekily parked in an entirely empty, but private, car park on my way to visit the dentist. Half an hour later, enamel shining, I went to move my car, but found that someone had deliberately boxed me in.
Inside the health centre that owned the car park, I pointed shyly to my car and asked the receptionist whether the owner could kindly let me out. Her eyes flashed. With a cruel little smile, she said: "What a shame. The person whose car is in your way has gone on a house call and won't be back for four or maybe five hours." She swivelled in her seat with satisfaction. Job done. Or so she thought.
I decided that, with only a small hedge on my front bumper and half a foot behind, I would, after all, be able to manoeuvre my way free. And that's what I did. Instead of getting overheated in situations of petty conflict, I tend to withdraw, go quiet, put on classical music and wind down the window.
In less than five minutes, I was almost away. Then things went summer crazy on me. Incensed that her act of vengeance was being undermined, the now vicious 18-stone fury came charging out of the building.
"You scratched that client's car," she said, spraying spittle on my windscreen. I hadn't, but she assured me that she'd tell the client I had. Now this, I know, is the point where many would have got angry and retaliated. I made my perennial mistake of under- estimating the enemy and winding them up with a coldly sarcastic remark.
"You really need to calm down," I said, with a fake sigh of sympathy. "Perhaps a massage or some physiotherapy will help you with your, erm, anger problem."
Big mistake. She began screaming obscenities at me. At which point, a man ran out from the building and joined her to yell at me. "You think you can do what you fucking like? Hmm? Hmm? Do you? Do you? We've called the police and they're on their way, you bitch."
When I pointed out that "hey, guys, it's just a parking space" and that I was leaving anyway, the first vast ball of fury mysteriously "found" the keys to the other car and began revving the engine, bunny-hopping forwards to try to block my exit. I was beginning to feel afraid of both of them. With a panicked spin of my steering wheel, I shot out into the main road and sped away as the woman yelled, "If I ever see you again I'm gonna smash your face", except the language she actually used was rather stronger.
Still, it wasn't as bad as last year's little rumble. A demented girl smashed a pint glass into my face after her boyfriend began following me around the bar like a haunted puppy. One minute I was bending down to get cigarettes from a machine, the next I saw stars and was having my hair pulled out. I grabbed the screaming girl by the throat to stop her doing any more damage and slowly marched her outside, her feet barely touching the ground.
I have, so far, managed to stay calm in these situations. The long list of heated exchanges and assaults started in 1978, when I was 11. Playing tennis against Mr Dobson's garage door drove him nuts, so he ran at me one afternoon, waving a stick. Standing calmly, I listened as he ranted and accused me of being "a hooligan with no discipline" and "out of control". When he came panting to a halt, I replied: "On the contrary, Mr Dobson, I am cool, calm and collected. It is you, sir, who is out of control." He was so furious he went to kick me but, as he lashed out, one of his slippers shot off his foot and over the boundary fence. I could barely run away, I was laughing so hard.
That's when all this summer madness began to plague me. Roll on autumn and the cool, calming storms of September.
