Anyway, I wanted the car for a wee baby shower outing to the Borders. So keen was I to see the new bub, that I was even prepared to be the designated driver and forgo the traditional headwetting.

Well the Borders is a strange place. I could almost hear the banjos as we left the city limits. They don't make it easy for you. Wee windy roads and strange place names are designed to put you off and send you scurrying back to the metropolis.

One of these little roads nearly did for me. Having taken a wrong turning we found ourselves at the top of a farm track. Not a problem, all I had to do was reverse down to the nearest house and turn. I hadn't exactly reckoned on how badly the torrential rain had affected the verges. Which is why the very simple reversing manoeuvre ended with a rear wheel spinning uselessly in the air and the back of the Volvo in a ditch.

There was a collective intake of breath, followed by some furtive glances before the guilty guffawing began. The laughter was good because it nearly drowned out my loud, imaginative and expansive swearing. After that had died down somewhat, my passengers asked me what I planned to do. Did I want some help pushing it out? Was I going to leave it? Or was I going to phone Mr Turner to beg for help?

Oh yeah, that was what I was going to do. "Darling? I've put the car in a ditch. Can you come and help?" No. I don't think so. I don't have to phone my husband to get me out of this sticky situation. I don't need to go bleating to him to come and rescue me. I am perfectly able to cope myself. My plan was very simple. I was going to go and knock the door of the nearest cottage and see if they could get me out of the ditch.

The lovely man who answered the door could see immediately that I spelled trouble. When I explained what had happened, he leapt into action. "Are you in the AA? They could help you. Have you phoned your husband?" All I needed was a stone or something under the rear tyre and I could just drive out of the ditch, I told him. Easy peasy. He bowed to my superior grasp of the situation. Actually, he saw that I was about to cry and knew that he had no way out.

He and his next door neighbour then very, very kindly helped me out. They didn't laugh when I had to empty everything out of the boot in order to access the jack. Just the usual things, you understand. Wellies, barbecue, fishing rods, casserole dishes, bottles of wine.

They bit their tongues when I stalled the car trying to get it moved the first time. They even kept their shouts down to a loud roar when they eventually got me out and I accelerated too hard and nearly hit the opposite wall. And they would take nothing for their trouble – probably just glad to see the back of me. So, chaps, I would like to say a huge thank you for all your help. Your efforts meant that I was able to say to Mr Turner: "Put the car in a ditch. Don't worry, there's no damage. Of course I got it out. Piece of cake."