At least I’m not the one who crashed the Bentley. But I nearly did. It wasn’t my fault: a pile of slush, a pleasant conversation, and before I knew it I was swerving toward a snowbank. The landing was soft, and my passengers—a fellow hack and a Bentley representative—thankfully were unscathed. As for the car, well, the baby-blue Mulsanne proved forgiving. As we sat nestled in the snowbank two thoughts came to mind: first, this is what happens when you send a literary editor to do a man’s job. (I should be home skimming galleys, not braving icy country lanes!) And second, the seats are amazingly comfortable, and I would be perfectly happy spending the rest of the afternoon so ensconced. (And this was before I discovered the seat massager.) But tea awaited us, and there were more cars to drive, so my reverie ended and we carried on, gingerly. Little did we know, another snowbank was in our future.