An evening of hell reluctantly arranged, I sit back to enjoy the views, as we’re now out of Bristol, heading south towards Chew Magna. On balance, I’m glad Robbie persuaded me to leave London so he could fulfil his dream of a country house with a garden, even if my mother laments the low ceilings. He wanted space in the sense of more rooms and land, whereas I wanted something more abstract. Whatever it was, I found more of it in the clear horizons of the countryside than I did in the hemmed-in capital. When I watched him building the longed-for swing in the garden, I felt settled in a way I never had before, like I’d successfully escaped. But I suppose I hadn’t really, just kicked the can down the road, as this morning’s email proved. Talking of roads, there’s a gorgeous view of the valley from the one we’re on, and I tell Danny to stop so I can get out to enjoy it. This day is about pausing to be in the moment, and I’m going to do it, over there in that meadow.

Grumbling, he pulls up on the kerb, and I set off down a dirt track to get a better look. Gazing across fields peppered with dandelions, I can see the reservoir glittering beyond – perfect for this period of reflection I intend to take. It’s lush and beautiful – so far removed from the endless tarmac and crowding towers of London. Layers of vivid green with pockets of remaining yellow, shimmering silver blue and then the deeper blue of the sky above. Like a Constable painting, if he’d used nice bright colours. I start some mindful breathing, but something is nagging at me – not just the things I didn’t manage to escape, but something I’ve just seen out of the corner of my eye. What was it? Turning, I look back up the track. There’s another car parked there, one I passed on my way down – an old muddy Golf, with a Countryside Alliance sticker on the window screen. I traipse back up and peer in. Jesus Christ. A cowering ball of fur on the back seat. It must be nearly thirty degrees, and the windows are closed.

Unlike Maz, I wouldn’t describe myself as an animal lover. I like Grizelda well enough, but mainly because she keeps the mice down and looks good on Instagram in front of an open fire. However, this is not on. It’s likely whoever owns this car has gone on a lovely country stroll – why couldn’t they bloody well take their dog with them, rather than leaving it to roast? I’ve read about these stories before and know what I’m supposed to do. In fact, when I read them, I fervently hoped it would never happen to me, because I couldn’t imagine how I would deal with it, so it’s lucky it’s happened today, when it won’t be a problem.

‘Danny!’ I holler, beckoning him. He’s got the Daily Express propped against the steering wheel and he’s eating a packet of Wotsits. I march over and tap on the glass. He looks up, annoyed, and lowers the window.

‘You have to come and help me,’ I say, opening the door for him. ‘It’s an emergency.’

‘Help you do what?’ He gets out, wincing as he stretches his legs.

‘Break into a car,’ I reply, stalking down the track.

‘What’s wrong with my car?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your car.’

‘Then why’d you want to steal another one?’

‘I don’t want to steal it, I just want to break into it. Look.’ I point at the ball of fur. ‘Poor little thing.’

Shading his eyes, he presses his face to the glass. ‘It might be dead already. Leave it.’

‘I will not. Help me find a brick.’

We can’t find a brick, but we do find a big stone on the track. With my eyes closed, I hit the front passenger window with it. Nothing happens. Car window glass is reassuringly tough. I hit it again, harder; nothing.

‘You do it.’ I hold out the stone to Danny. ‘You’re stronger than me.’

He shakes his head. ‘No way, that’s criminal damage, that is.’

‘It’s justified if an animal is in danger.’

‘Not if you haven’t told the police you’re going to do it.’

‘How are you suddenly such an expert?’

He gives me a withering look. ‘I’m an effing taxi driver, ain’t I.’

I get out my phone. There’s no signal, so instead I take a photo of the little cringing creature whose life I am about to save.

‘Right, stand back.’ From about a foot away, I throw the stone, hard, at the window. It shatters, I duck and Danny yelps, but when we come to, there’s a huge jagged hole. Bingo.

‘Now you’ve done it,’ says Danny.

‘I know I’ve done it, I meant to do it.’ Exasperated, I push him aside, carefully reaching in to unlock the car. Then I open the back door, gather up the hot dog, and pass it to Danny.

‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ he splutters.

For someone with such strong opinions on popular culture, he’s not very proactive. ‘Just take it back to your car.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘There’s something I’ve got to do first.’

Clutching the bundle, he turns and trudges back up the track, as I contemplate the legally damaged Golf with my hands on my hips. Far from being unable to do the deed, I’ve discovered that, in fact, the deed wasn’t enough. I’m still vexed with the heedless owner of this vehicle, who left his dog to die in it. He – for I’m sure it is a man – needs to be more comprehensively punished for his malign neglect. I assess the track, speculatively. It slopes downwards in a fairly straight line towards a field with an open gate. There’s a big oak tree just beyond. It’s an extremely bucolic scene.

I open the passenger door and lean in to look around. Although I didn’t pass my test, I’m familiar with the basics. Checking the gearbox is in neutral, I release the handbrake, and step back hastily. This turns out to be unnecessary, as the car stays exactly where it is. Slamming the door, I go round to the boot and start to push, my sandals scrambling on the gravel. Just as I’m wondering if I’m going to have to call Danny again, the car begins to trundle down the track, gathering momentum as it goes. It’s as satisfying a sight as the gently rolling valley. By the time it reaches the end of the lane, it’s got up to quite a speed, and the crash as it hits the tree is gratifying, causing me to do some spontaneous mindful breathing as I appreciate the vista. It’s definitely enhanced the view, like a sort of modern Hay Wain. There’s a faint hissing sound coming from the bonnet, but I haven’t got any more time to stand around admiring my own work. Dusting off my hands, I return to Danny’s car, climbing back into the rear passenger seat.

‘How’s the dog?’ I ask, putting on my seatbelt.

‘I’m sorry to say . . .’ begins Danny, in sombre tones.

‘Oh God, don’t tell me it’s dead.’

‘No,’ he replies, holding out the ball of fur. ‘It’s not dead, but . . . it ain’t no dog.’

I take the trembling, cashmere-soft bundle from him and arrange it on my lap for inspection. He’s right. It’s not a dog, it’s a rabbit. A massive, floppy-eared bunny.

‘Right,’ I say, as its back legs scrabble painfully against my thighs. ‘My mistake.’

‘Seems a bit much to smash someone’s car in for a rabbit.’

I was thinking along those lines myself, but I’m damned if I’ll admit it. ‘That’s a very prejudiced view. Anyway, who the hell leaves a rabbit in a car?’

‘Maybe they thought it would get shot in the field.’

Who knows why people do what they do. The fact is, I’ve destroyed a car to save Bigwig here, and I’ll just have to own it.

‘Very well,’ I say. ‘Drive on.’

21

Despite Maz’s love of animals, we were never allowed a pet. My mother professed herself allergic to cats, and said she’d once been bitten by an Irish terrier, leaving her with a lifelong fear of dogs and Ireland, but the truth was that neither beast would have been conducive to her quest for an immaculate house. My sister’s alpacas could be viewed as a massive metaphorical finger to Rose – free to embrace four-legged friends, Maz chose the biggest, smelliest ones she could find. Perhaps Grizelda is my subtler, more refined rebellion. And now I have abducted a rabbit.

Inspired by our encounter, Danny launches into a tirade against a show called Good Dog, Bad Dog, which is in fact a series I made a while ago which took two contrasting examples of the same breed and . . . contrasted them. I’m actually quite proud of that show because we made it with all sorts of Covid regulations in place, and, after shivering my arse off in bleak parks for six weeks, I managed to avoid hypothermia. It seems my driver objects to us having paired a ‘good’ Golden Retriever with a ‘bad’ yellow Labrador – technically not the same pedigree, which made a mockery of the format and disappointed Danny hugely. I stroke Bigwig’s butter-soft spine and wonder if he is a good bunny or a bad one.

David’s estate is looking particularly exquisite as my Mercedes rolls along its lengthy cypress-lined driveway shortly after 3 p.m. The vines undulate across the Somerset slopes in pleasingly uniform rows, and the elegant Georgian manor house ahead is burnished amber in the afternoon sunshine. In the show Good Vineyard, Bad Vineyard, this would definitely be the former. It really will make a lovely setting for a series about shitfaced millennials. As we pull up outside, I can hear the crunch of gravel, as if we’ve arrived at Downton for a murder mystery weekend.

‘Right,’ I say to Danny. ‘I’ll only be half an hour or so – can you wait here?’

‘What about Flopsy?’ He jerks his thumb at my new pet, who is sprawled on the leather seat, his back legs sticking out like one of those animal-hide rugs.

‘Well, unless he wants a wine tour he’ll have to stay here.’

‘I can’t have him hopping everywhere.’

‘He’s not hopping, he’s flopping – look at him.’