Next thing I know, this old guy has run his front wheel over both my feet.
“Oy!” I expostulated as the back wheel goes over my feet (Fortunately I wear steel toecapped work shoes). The only response I got from him was a mouthed ‘fuck off’ and a two fingered hand signal not mentioned in the Highway Code which is something to do with sex and travel. I was somewhat miffed and was momentarily tempted to lash out and scuff his paintwork, but curtailed my immediate thoughts of mayhem.
Bear this in mind, the footway at that point was clear, a good three metres wide on dry tarmac, and the closest pedestrian was a good twenty paces away; so what on earth was the old fool up to? He’d had to make a two metre detour to mildly inconvenience me, and for what? Was he going to brag about running over a Traffic Wardens feet to his rough, tough mates at the bide-a-wee home for the shortly to be dead? A little nonplussed, I watched as this geriatric hooligan accelerated away and caused a young mother with one of those dual pushchairs to dodge sharply. He hadn’t done me any harm, but I was wondering why he’d even bothered in the first place. He’d had to make a special effort to do it and had achieved precisely nothing but give me some material for a blog entry.
Upon my return to base the rest of the lads thought it was highly risible. “Did you get his number Bill?” Was one of the standard mess room witticisms when I was dumb enough to mention it. Ho yes, very funny.
“Did you breathalyse him Bill?”
“Call the Coppers and have him done for dangerous driving.”
“Probably on drugs.”
“Yeah, for his haemorrhoids.” Sometimes the fun never starts.
Maybe it’s something to do with the weather.