Late last year, I needed to transport some furniture from our house in Sussex to my son's flat in central London. I 01 a man to do it for me, but foolishly confident in my driving ability, l decided to hire a van and drive it 02. It was a Ford Transit 280, long and wide; you couldn't see out of the back. You never really knew how close you were to anything 03 on the road.Reversing in my home yard, l crashed into a small shed, causing permanent 04. At least l owned the shed.l loaded up the furniture and set 05. By now it was rush 06. My nerves broke down, as I steered the huge van through ever-shifting lanes, across oncoming vehicles, between distances of buses, at last to Charlotte Street.Here, I found an 07 parking space. As I reversed into it, I noticed three people at a pavement café 08 to me. l got out, trembling violently, like one 09 has just endured a stormy Atlantic crossing. “You've shifted the car parked 10 you three feet," they said, and it belonged 11 a disabled person. I examined the car. There were white scratches 12 its front bumper. It bore a disabled 13. So, now I was a bad driver and a bad man. Under the stern gaze of the three, I left an apologetic note on the damaged car's windscreen, 14 my phone number.l 15 the furniture, dripping with sweat. Wanting only to escape the monster, I drove the van back to its base on the Edgware Road. On arrival, the hire man told me I must 16 it up with petrol before returning it. “Just charge me," I cried, still shaking with 17. He gazed at me with understanding. No doubt he'd witnessed 18 in this state before. "How 19 I drive you to a petrol station, you fill up, and l drive her back?” he asked.He danced the great van through the traffic so casually that it 20 me if I had not been so grateful.