No, its alright. I've sent someone to ring my husband. Enormous dark glasses mask most of her pale face. Three denimed youths from a souped-up Escort with green furry dice join the persuaders. No, she can't possibly get out of the car.
People crane their necks.
Then a fascinated line of motorists behold two high-heeled pink satin slippers emerge from the car. Their airy swansdown trimming upon contact with deep wet slush, immediately lies down and dies, while the bitter wind whips a cruel frill of broderie anglaise about their owner's very white knees. She stands by the verge in her little short jacket and her little short nightie, crimson with shame, her gaze fixed on the sodden ruin of the pink satin slippers. A quartet of stalwart fellows manhandle her car to the side of the road whence she dives like a ferret down a rabbit hole. A chorus of hoots and salutes beats upon her ears as the long tail of traffic passes.