This is the stuff of nightmares. For more than an hour, my partner and I were trapped and stranded in our electric vehicle, on a busy road, unable to open the doors.

The car, one that we’ve driven for years without any problem, stopped and died without warning – no flashing lights, no bleeps, no indication it was low on power until, suddenly, the engine gave out and we rolled to a stop.

We couldn’t even switch on the hazard warning lights. Traffic was hurtling past. I have never been more frightened in my life, constantly braced for an impact, just waiting for another car to slam into the back of us.

I’m not exaggerating when I say it was like being stuck in your own coffin. We could have been killed at any moment – and so could other road users.

Yet the police refused to do anything to help. It was honestly horrific.

Terrifying as the ordeal was, it started in the most innocuous, almost comical way. My partner Neil and I were on our way home to east London at about 5.45pm on a Wednesday two weeks ago, after a manicure and pedicure. It’s not something we do every day, but it was a bit of a treat – stop sniggering at the back!

We had crossed the river and the car suddenly slowed to a stop in the inside lane of Prescot Street, a two-lane, one-way artery a few blocks from Tower Bridge. Neil was driving and, at first, I couldn’t work out what was happening. ‘You can’t park here,’ I told him helpfully. ‘It’s double-red lines. We’ll be arrested.’

But Neil wasn’t trying to park. The car, a five-year-old all-electric Fiat 500 we’ve owned from new, had simply died.

The dashboard was dark. No matter how many times Neil pressed the starter button, nothing happened. A lorry barrelled past on the passenger side, horn blaring.

Within a few seconds, it was obvious this situation was dangerous.

Nothing worked. Our car, which was driving quite normally a few moments before, was now an unresponsive tin box. The fact that we’d charged it before leaving home that afternoon made no difference.

After a minute or two of willing the car to start, it was evident we would have to phone a breakdown service. Fumbling through the glove compartment, I found an emergency number for the insurers.

Before making the call, though, we decided we’d be safer out of the car. And that’s when the full nightmare began.

The doors would not open. Both of us were tugging at the handles and they weren’t working. ‘Wind down your window,’ I told Neil. ‘You can reach your arm through and open it from the outside.’

But his window wouldn’t budge, and neither would mine. Everything in the car worked via the electrics, and the electrics were dead.

My chest tightened with panic. I’ve read horror stories about electric vehicles, we all have, but I never imagined it would be possible to be trapped in our own little car, in a busy two-lane street in the East End.

Unable to leave the car, we called our insurer, who put us through to the RAC. Their call handler warned us to expect a six-hour wait, or longer, before they could get anyone out to us.

That seemed incredible. We explained repeatedly that we were trapped in the car but we were told that our situation was not regarded as a priority, because we were in a city street. This was ludicrous – not only were we stuck in rush hour traffic, at risk of a collision at any moment, but we were causing obvious congestion. Surely those double-red lines were there for a reason.

The RAC wanted to know if we could recharge the vehicle. Once again, we tried to explain that we couldn’t leave the vehicle. It wouldn’t let us out.

I thought we’d passed a charging point in a nearby street – but what were we expected to do? Run a non-existent extension reel for several hundred yards?

‘We’re going to be killed if this carries on,’ I told Neil. ‘I’m calling the police.’

But when I dialled 999, the call handler simply wasn’t interested. The street’s designated 20mph speed limit meant this was seen as a non-hazardous incident. ‘Police will not be attending,’ she informed me, repeatedly. I explained we were trapped. I told her I was having a panic attack. I pleaded that I was 78 years old and diabetic in urgent need of my medication. None of this made the least difference: ‘Police will not be attending.’

By now in tears, I sat there pulling and tugging at the wretched door handle – and without warning, it opened. I almost fell out into the traffic.

Why the catch released like that, I can’t say for sure. Perhaps some tiny residue of electricity had built up. Everything else was still broken. Neil’s door wouldn’t open and the car wouldn’t start. Picking my moment, I managed to squeeze out on to the road and around to the pavement. Neil had to clamber over the automatic gearstick and the passenger seat to join me.

We tried to open the boot, to collect our belongings, but even that was jammed.

Desperate by now for the loo, we hurried to the hotel opposite, a Premier Inn.

Thank heavens for Jenny and Siobhan, two friendly guests who overheard more frantic phone calls to the RAC in the hotel lobby and invited us to join them for coffee. They offered to watch the car for us while we dashed home in a taxi to collect my meds.

Siobhan even climbed through, over the car seats into the boot, to rescue our shopping. What a couple of angels.

There are free panto tickets with your names on them for ever after, girls!

Murphy’s law dictated that, while we were away, the RAC did send someone over… with the wrong type of recovery truck.

It wasn’t till 3.45am – yes, nearly four in the morning – that Neil was able to see our car safely put on to a transporter and brought home.

In all that time – ten hours in total – there wasn’t a single sign of the police. When they said they wouldn’t be attending, they really meant it.

The last thing Neil did, before falling into bed exhausted at dawn, was to put the car on charge. Incredibly, it was working the next morning without a hitch – though it will be a long time before I feel safe to get in an electric vehicle again. We still have no idea what caused the problem.

A fortnight later and I’m shaking with shock and anger. What if a lorry had ploughed into us: would the police have come out then?

By coincidence, last week two cars were involved in a minor prang round the corner from our home and the police came straight out, even though no one was seriously hurt. Do they have to wait for a disaster before taking action? It makes no sense.

Maddest of all is the headlong rush to switch to electric cars when, as Neil and I discovered to our horror, they are not safe. Petrol and diesel cars can conk out unexpectedly, of course, but at least the occupants won’t be entombed, unable to open the doors.

I used to believe electric cars were the future – so much so that I wrote nine years ago a paean to my new environmentally friendly BMW in the Daily Mail, saying that ‘electric cars are superior to the old-fashioned internal combustion engine in every way’.

Well, I do not believe that now! In fact, I’m determined to trade in my Fiat 500 for a hybrid – part electric, part petrol. Electric cars might be the future, but they were nearly the death of me.

• A spokesman for Fiat expressed concern for Mr Biggins’s experience, in particular that he and his partner had not been able to get out of the vehicle. ‘The car is equipped with a manual lever to open the doors in the event of power failure, so this shouldn’t have been a problem,’ they added.