I have to say it again, that drivers in South Cambs are truly the worst. Seriously. I would take the up-your-arse and can’t-use-roundabouts from the motherland any day. Everyday, I see at least two people going through red lights. (And that is people in cars, let us not forget the stupid, stupid cyclists that infest this town.) But this isn’t about red lights, oh no. (Nor will I point out that I now deliberately accelerate hard when I am at the front of the queue and the lights turn red/amber. Nor will I point out I wag my finger at the drivers who blatantly come through red lights. As to point out either would incriminate me in something, I am sure, and the next few paragraphs will no doubt do just that. Perhaps. Or perhaps you will sympathise.)
In the evenings, I head down the M11 a few junctions, bypassing some of the traffic I would otherwise encounter. Firstly, a bit of context. I dislike intensely idiots who hare along the outside lane, then swerve in the last ten yards towards their exit, expecting all and sundry to get out of their way. It isn’t as if in this Statist country there aren’t signs every hundred feet for miles warning of the upcoming exit. I have always disliked this, be it here or on the oul sod.
Next, there is about eighteen miles from the junction I leave at to head home, to the next one, which just so happens to be the turn off for Stansted Airport. Or Colchester, but I haven’t been there. A good eighteen miles. With no exit. Eighteen miles. No exit. See where this is going?
And I have went through with my plan a total of four times now. It goes like this: I can see the halfwit in the outside lane, for an age, not pulling in when he had plenty of chance. I can see him slow, accelerate, slow, accelerate, trying to find a gap, even though he is running out of road. I presume as my Caitlin is, well, petite, that he thinks he still has time. He hasn’t. I can slow, accelerate, slow, accelerate as well, and just keep my nose in front of his. Now, the thing to note is that on the slip road off the motorway, there are two lanes, and I need to be in the left one. However, in these special cases, I indicate, but keep on the road, and go into the right lane. And, for added hilarity, I turn to look at the panicked driver as they realise they have a thirty-six mile round trip to get back. Sometimes I look with an exaggerated expression of horror, with knuckles in mouth, eyes wide, in a I-didn’t-see-you-I-am-*so*-sorry sorta way. Sometimes I laugh. As, you know, it isn’t as if I am in a car that stands out, am I, and they might see me again? But I tell you, they won’t do it again, and in that respect, I have done them a service.
As one wag pointed out last week, if I don’t like name shortening, why did I give all my children names that can be shortened? At least they don’t have the issue of having people misspelling their names. (Editor’s note: yes, my youngest does get it occasionally.) I mean, how hard can it be to misspell a four letter word? Although, to be fair, most times I don’t even correct it, having gotten used to it over the years. But these days, especially in the employment arena, what with my name being spelled properly in the email they have received, you would think they could parrot it back. sigh But, again to be fair, it hasn’t happened in a while. I am talking about myself, my name, the children’s names, as an introduction to talking about our mental puppy. Whose name is Tycho, which, as a spoken name, works on all levels. It is easy to shout in the park, and keeps me happy as it isn’t a common name. Nor is it a remote control toy company. My offspring do troll me with this, and yes, it grates somewhat. (How did I choose the name? Well, Dirac didn’t sound right, and as I was trawling through various groundbreaking papers, I happened upon Kepler. There you go.) But it is a fine name. Ripe for misspelling. And even shortening. sigh Whether our Tycho will own a moose that will die after falling down the stairs drunk is yet to be seen.
