My praise of the AA man was short lived, the repair that should have lasted at least 500 miles gave up after five and left me stranded again. Spent yesterday lunchtime in a grimy tyre shop getting shouted at by the staff who have yet to become acquainted with the concept of ‘Customer Service’.
Bravely decided to drive in again today, I was going to trust The Skip to get me here. Anyway, it was too foggy, cold and dark to ride my bike.
Joe Walsh’s ‘Funk 48’ was blaring away from an old compilation tape I found on the floor.
At some red traffic signals the brake lights of the triple queues of cars were glowing eerily in the mist. ‘Bit like the flames of hell with smoke all around’, I thought cheerily to myself, while ‘grooving to the beat’.
Was I soon to be buffeted by winds and not be able to steer properly?
‘I wonder if people think I’m mad when I jiggle around to music they can’t hear?’
Would there be a swamp I couldn’t drive through in the Morden one-way system?
‘All the pedestrians look sad; hoods up, hands wedged in pockets against the cold.’
Was there going to be a wasp inside the car that I couldn’t get out, tormenting me for miles?
‘Lights have gone green’.
Was I going to get stopped by a two-headed policeman with a forked tail at the next junction?
‘Now you’re being silly’.
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