LOUD NOISES!!!
Emerging from the gloom in just a pair of pyjama bottoms, the owner of a luxuriant coppery chest rug crunches across the gravel before gruffly enquiring, “Just what the f**k do you think you’re doing?”
Photographer Greg hastens adjustments to his camera mounting, illuminated in the torchlight from the topless gentleman’s iPhone. This guy is positively bristling, and it’s apparently not with enthusiasm for the rare and coveted supercar I’ve just inadvertently driven straight through his beauty sleep. He notes the Ferrari’s numberplate, and trains his camera on my abashed mug as Greg retreats, offering sincere apologies.
“This is a private f**king residence,” he seethes. My dashboard says
