Flat pack

Getting to Goodwood last Saturday was an achievement in itself. On the Bank Holiday weekend I calculated a cross-country route from Oxfordshire to avoid the traffic. All went well until my satnav threw a hissy fit at my variations. Its female voice, that of an eager hockey mistress contemplating a career change to dominatrix, instructed me to take the fourth turning off a roundabout that possessed only three. Shortly afterwards came a peremptory order to ‘turn right’ off a long straight road that offered no exit, so I switched her off and navigated the old-fashioned way with a map. Even then there were problems: when I stopped in one leafy Surrey lane to seek confirmation from a sensible-looking lady in a headscarf that I was on the right road, I was puzzled at the way she backed away from the car window rather than approaching it with her advice. At the time I blamed the garlic in the excellent turkey koftas Mrs Oakley had served the night before: only afterwards did I realise that perhaps it is not wise to approach single females on the kerbside with your CD playing Jose Feliciano’s heavily suggestive version of ‘C’mon Baby, Light My Fire’.