This evening, Quercus had one of those makes-you-question-our-society-and-indeed-humanity moments. Coming back from Exeter, he was overtaken in a thirty limit by someone who pulled in so sharply that he thought they were going to clip the front of his car. Instinctively, he hooted them. The car, a taxi, braked very hard, stopping so sharply in front of him that Quercus locked up the wheels on his car as he too braked. I should add that Quercus, while reasonably warlike when I met him at twenty, is, and always has been, a very sensible driver – he doesn’t overreact, and nor does he seek out trouble.

Anyway, the taxi driver then drove at ten miles an hour for the rest of the stretch of road they were on, braking excessively, while his passenger leaned out of the back window, hurling abuse and throwing cigarettes at Quercus. After that, they reached a roundabout, and things appeared to revert to normal – the taxi pulled away normally from the lights that start the A30 out of Exeter, and Quercus thought they were done.

Not so.

Having driven, oh, say, five miles, normally, and some distance ahead of Quercus, the taxi then pulled into a layby, only to pull out immediately behind Quercus, so close that once again he thought he was going to get shunted. The taxi then dodged in and out behind him and in front of him, swerving aggressively as if to shunt him from the side and force him off the road, for the next four miles, before following Quercus off at the exit one takes to get to the Witchery. Quercus had still done nothing – hadn’t reacted, beyond slowing down when the taxi pulled out behind him, in a bid to get him to overtake, and leave him alone.

The taxi followed him off the A30 and round a roundabout, along another thirty limit (completely in the opposite direction from where we live; Quercus, by this stage, was very worried that the driver would follow him home, particularly as he is currently sporting a ‘For Sale’ sign, complete with our phone number, in the back of his very distinctive car) for a couple of miles, before disappearing when Quercus put his foot down as the thirty limit ended. Quercus drove around for a few miles, again nowhere near the Witchery, and then came home, armed with the registration number, and called the police. Who say they will look into it and get back to us. Hmmm. We’ll see, I suppose; my experience of the police in things like this is not fantastic. It scares me to think that one has always to keep one’s eyes on the floor, ignoring people who break speed limits and drive like maniacs because they might just target YOU this time, and there appears to be nothing that reasonable people can do about it.