'That's even sillier,' he answered. 'There's no fun working them lousy machines and selling tickets to mugs. Any fool could do that.'
There was a long silence. I decided not to question him any more. I remembered how irritated I used to get in my hitchhiking days when drivers kept asking me questions. Where are you going? Why are you going there? What's your job? Are you married? Do you have a girl-friend? What's her name? How old are you? And so on and so forth. I used to hate it.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'It's none of my business what you do. The trouble is, I'm a writer, and most writers are terrible nosey parkers.'
'You write books?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Writin' books is okay,' he said. 'It's what I call a skilled trade. I'm in a skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin' crummy old routine jobs with no skill in 'em at all
. You see what I mean?'
'Yes.'
'The secret of life,' he said, 'is to become very very good at somethin' that's very very 'ard to do.'
'Like you,' I said.
'Exactly. You and me both.'
'What makes you think that I'm any good at my job?' I asked. 'There's an awful lot of bad writers around.'
'You wouldn't be drivin' about in a car like this if you weren't no good at it,' he answered. 'It must've cost a tidy packet, this little job.'
'It wasn't cheap.'
'What can she do flat out?' he asked.
'One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour,' I told him.
'I'll bet she won't do it.'
'I'll bet she will.'
'All car makers is liars,' he said. 'You can buy any car you like and it'll never do what the makers say it will in the ads.'
'This one will.'
'Open 'er up then and prove it,' he said. 'Go on, guv'nor, open 'er right up and let's see what she'll do.'
There is a roundabout at Chalfont St Peter and immediately beyond it there's a long straight section of dual carriageway. We came out of the roundabout on to the carriageway and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. The big car leaped forward as though she'd been stung. In ten seconds or so, we were doing ninety.
'Lovely!' he cried. 'Beautiful! Keep goin'!'
I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.
'One hundred!' he shouted... 'A hundred and five!... A hundred and ten!... A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don't slack off!'
I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still - a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroen, a white Land-Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus...
'A hundred and twenty!' my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. 'Go on! Go on! Get 'er up to one-two-nine!'
At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.
'Oh, my sainted aunt!' I said. 'That's torn it!'
The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. 'I didn't know police motor-cycles could go as fast as that,' I said rather lamely.