I was backing out of the parking spot when someone drove into the side of my car. So I pulled back into the spot and someone else slammed into the other side of my car, this time denting the front bumper. So I then pulled out for the second time and this other person sped in from the left and side-swiped me. The passenger door was bent inwards, and shards of glass flew all over the place. I was relieved that Maarten had decided not to accompany me to do the shopping that afternoon. Now I had no less than three cars wedged in various orientations around me. So I looked to the right, and the only part of the car still exposed received a pounding blow from some massive truck, the driver wearing a tight T-shirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips unshaven, the impact nudging me sideways. I could see those flags which all truck drivers have hanging in their cockpits swaying back and forth because of the impact. This is too much to believe, it cannot be true. I got out of the car. I was a little bit upset, more confused about the whole situation you might say, and I was a little surprised myself that I was not completely angry and infuriated and cussing. Everyone had driven away, I assumed, because there were no more cars around. In fact, the whole parking lot was empty, completely deserted, and it was starting to get dark. I took a quick tour around the car. Strange, it looked just fine now, and there was not a single dent or scratch to be found. In fact, it looked brand-new as if I had just driven it out of the sales lot. The metallic coating shone and looked sharp, the lights from the streets lights reflected almost like the side of my car was moist from the early evening dew. That is when I woke up.