Mini-punch!

In the undesirable albeit highly unlikely event that a forensic autopsy was carried out on me tomorrow, then the scientist concerned, having made some unflattering notes about my weight, would no doubt ring up Trevor Eve and say "I think you'd better come and have a look at this, sir."

And when Trevor strode into the lab, looking a bit cross about something, the scientist would indicate my left bicep and say "There's all this strange bruising, sir: I can't account for it." And this would lead Trevor down all sorts of blind alleyways in his investigations until, by some turn of circumstance, he'd be travelling in the car with my son, Dan, and a Mini would come into view. At this point, Dan would gleefully punch Trevor in the arm whilst exclaiming "MINI PUNCH! No returns."

This is a game that has been running for several weeks now and Dan's enjoyment of it shows no signs of abating. I have tried explaining that it is unfair, since I am also concentrating on driving the car and doing my bit to keep us, other car users, and the occasional cyclist safe on the roads, but my argument is undermined by the rare instances when I see a Mini first and get to (playfully) punch him on the the thigh. (The angle is too tricky to get his arm.)

I'm not actually sure whether his reaction time is just a lot better than mine or whether he is just more able to focus on the game whilst I keep a conscientious eye out for other road-based hazards. Certainly, he strikes up less conversation these days as he sits there like a Mini-obsessed Cylon warrior with his eyes scanning from left to right.

A further downside is the fact that when I am on my own and catch sight of one of these hitherto largely disregarded vehicles, I find myself muttering "Mini punch" under my breath. Fortunately there is no attendant reflex to punch the nearest person, so I am the victim only of odd looks and no charges of actual bodily harm.