Down Memory Street

Back then, ordinary folk could drive along London’s Oxford Street. But it was busy, with traffic and shoppers.

The MGB roadster, my pride and joy, had stopped running and a friend was kindly towing us back to our north London flat. The shortest route took in Oxford Street.

Stopped temporarily for a pedestrian crossing outside Selfridges, the slapstick began. Lemmings, deciding not to go the extra few yards to the crossing itself, started racing across the road in front of the MGB. As their leader toppled over the tow rope, oblivious followers followed.

I resented the nasty looks I received.