Well, this was going to be a wrap-up of Gwyl Crime Cymru Festival 2025, and there will be one, but in the meantime you’ve got this piece of nonsense instead.

I was supposed to be flying back to Wales, via Bristol, 24 hours ago; but a strike put paid to that and so, thanks as ever to Caroline who rebooked everything for me, I found myself flying out this morning. All went well, neither of the airports were horrible (okay, I had to remove a blade from my razor but – I forgot, my bad) and I’m at the car hire place nice and early. Picking up the car from Avis is super-efficient and, so far, it’s all going well.

I check the car over and notice a small scuff on the paintwork. I go back inside and mention it to the young woman behind the desk who says, oh don’t worry, just take a photo of it and it’ll be fine. Okay, good to know.

Then I actually get into the car.

Now, the thing you need to realise is that cars now work differently to when I left the UK. I live in Venice. I don’t have a car. And I spend about 20 minutes trying to get the onboard computer to communicate with my phone as the route from Bristol Airport to the M4 is tortuous and, even after all these years, I don’t trust myself to remember it.

Anyway, I get it sorted, and I try to start the car. I know ignition keys are becoming a thing of the past, but I look around the dashboard and I can’t find a start button. Eventually I google “Vauxhall Crossland Start Button” and find it’s kind of hidden away behind the steering wheel. Phew. That could have been embarrassing. I press the button and the engine rumbles into life. Just take the handbrake off and I’m good to go.

Except…

Except, try as I might, I can’t get the bloody handbrake off. I google “Vauxhall Crossland handbrake” and follow the instructions and…and…nothing. The damn thing refuses to work.

Eventually I give up. I go back in and say words to the effect of “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand cars any more, can somebody tell me how to take the handbrake off.”

The young woman who was dealing with me comes out to the car park and shows me. Of course, it works first time. Oh, silly me! We have a good laugh about it and I prepare to set off.

And I do. As soon as I’m past the barrier to the car park a warning light starts flashing and there’s an incessant PLING sound. Apparently the seat belt isn’t on.

I’m on the road now and there’s nowhere to pull over. I do a U-turn at the airport roundabout, go back to the rental place, and pull over. I unlatch the seat belt and plug it in again. I open and close all the doors. I plug in the passenger seat belt.

PLING.

I plug in the rear seat belts.

PLING.

I open and close all the doors again because, hey, shutting things down and starting them again always worked in IT.

PLING. PLING. PLING.

There’s only one thing left to do.

The young woman is well used to me by now and we greet each other as old friends.

She takes pity on me. Perhaps I might like another car?

I practically weep with gratitude. Nearly an hour has passed since I first picked up the first car.

It’s an automatic, are you okay with that?, she says, by now evidently a bit worried that I might be behind the wheel of any vehicle at all.

Frankly, by now, I’d be grateful for a man with a flag walking in front of me as a warning to other road users and so, yes, I’m perfectly okay with that.

We swap keys, I get into my new Nissan, and I set off. The roads are clear, the sun is shining, my heartrate returns to normal, and I’m back in Pembroke three hours later.

I still couldn’t get the bloody Bluetooth to work, mind you.

With my sincere thanks to the lovely people at Avis for their immense patience…