As I drove over to see friends in a nearby Cotswold village the other morning, all seemed to be well. The sky was blue, snowdrops were beginning to emerge and there was a definite sense that although it was still the middle of January, spring was just around the corner.
And yet something was troubling me. I was being tickled by the motoring world’s equivalent of a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tingle in the left arm. You know what it’s like when you walk into a northern pub and everyone’s laughing and joking and it’s warm and the beer’s good. But you can just sort of sense that, somewhere in the steamed-up background, Begbie’s getting ready to lob his pint glass over the balcony. And that soon you’ll
