Silly mare

We don’t have a separate staff car park at work, we have to dump our vehicles on the public supermarket car park and then hope they’re not reversed into or rammed by trolleys. When I finished work today I sat in my car with the engine running while I sent Philippa a text, when suddenly a large woman in her fifties climbed into the passenger seat with a carrier bag of shopping. She started moaning about the queues and about a man with a trolley being at the baskets-only till, and then as she plugged in her seatbelt she finally looked up and spotted me. A look of confused terror spread across her face and her voice dropped low as she said “You’re not my husband, are you?”
I smiled and said “Not as far as I remember, no.”
She said “This isn’t our car then, is it?”
I said “Not our car, no. It’s my car, but I’m pretty sure it’s not your car.”
She was so embarrassed she could hardly speak, and nearly fell flat on her face in her hurry to get out of the door. I thought it was pretty funny, but she seemed absolutely mortified. Why a state of mistaken vehicular identity should have rendered her so distraught I don’t know, but there we are. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: 
Women are strange, and unfathomable.

RC 18-5-16