A FEW years ago, some Americans came to stay in our street. Extending the hand of friendship - and with maybe one eye on an invite to the States - my wife and I enjoyed many a convivial evening in their company chez nous.

One night, the subject wound round to national traits. Dodgy area I'll grant you, but I was nevertheless intrigued to know how the average Yank viewed his British counterpart.

I did not have to wait long for an answer. "Jack," drawled my colonial guest, "the trouble with the Brits is that they're permanently on the edge".

Not on edge, you will notice but "on the edge". This is far more damning a verdict, for being on the lip of some imaginary precipice is undoubtedly more serious than just feeling a bit fidgetty. I asked him to give me an example.

He took a sip from his bottle of Bud, leaned back, crossed his legs and generally assumed the how-long-have-I-got position.

"Take motorists in New Road," he sniffed. "They all drive too fast, make no concessions whatsoever for strangers stuck in the wrong lane, and give you the third degree in verbal abuse for the slightest imagined offence."

I have often reflected on my guest's words and no more so than last weekend when I found myself in the Tesco car park in St Peter's, Worcester. My wife was cautiously departing when a vehicle on our right suddenly braked, the window wound down and the crazed occupant bawling: "You barmy mare!"

Neither of us gave him a second glance - I reserve my fascination for creatures higher up the food chain. Apart from anything else, it was our right-of-way.

I have no idea what we had done wrong. Nothing, probably. It was just one more example of Britain on the edge.