When we left to go home on Sunday, I was somewhat surprised to hear that I was to be given another go at reversing the trailer, this time out of the garage onto the road. My husband seemed much calmer this time: after all, we had managed to garden together all morning and on Saturday night his team had won the rugby. Things had not gone perfectly however on Saturday because although he had sanded and oiled the new chest of drawers beautifully and had put it in the bedroom, I had been cross because there was a trail of sawdust all over my newly vacuumed carpets as well as dirt over the tiles upstairs when he had rushed up from the garden to answer his cell phone. No matter, I would not belabour the point about always creating more work. This time the reversing went a bit better and we set off for the easy part of my lesson - driving with the trailer behind the car. All fine until we went up a hill and over a speed bump - very slowly, I might add, because our car is very low on the ground - but there was an ominous sounding crash, whereupon my husband yelled at me to stop, rushed out of the car and did something to the trailer. It transpired that he had forgotten to hitch the trailer over the ball-thing, and it was hanging only by its safety chain. So he hadn’t been so calm after all.