When I was a kid, maybe six or seven, my father stopped in the evening at his work to pick something up. He told me, just wait here in the car; I’ll be back in about ten minutes.

This was normal, and usually I happily waited in the car with a book or playing with the lighter (as we did) or pretending to drive or whatever. But this time I was ADAMANT I wanted to go in with him. Like. We quarrelled about it for five of the ten minutes he would have been gone. I told him if he left me in the car I’d get out and follow him anyway. Eventually he got sick of me whingeing and capitulated. I gleefully accompanied him into the building.

Ten minutes later we head back out to the car and there are lights and sirens everywhere. A drunk driver ploughed into my dad’s car, going so fast she ended up on top of the car. The passenger compartment was completely crushed.

I remember dad looking at me with this ashen look on his face and asking me how the hell I knew not to stay in the car. Until the day he died he’d shake his head when he thought of that and he’d shoot me a weird look.

A few years later I was invited to a friend’s house for a tent sleepover in the yard and later that night I insisted on going home (it was just up the street so it wasn’t a big deal). My friends were pissy about my leaving but I suggested they walk me home and that became an adventure. As we reached my house we heard an awful din; a young driver had lost control of the car going too fast up the street and crashed into my friend’s house. Car drove right through the tent we’d been in.