Commute

“It’s a bit foggy,” says Mr TLC, understating wildly. “Take care.”

I set off and start to play hide and seek with other drivers in the fog. Some of them have their lights on. Others have opted to present me with a higher level of challenge.

As is the way with these things, the small drop in altitude as I descend Crookes Mountain results in an abrupt change of weather. I emerge into bright sunshine. Nice.

 

I decide to revert to my normal route. Caution! Loose chippings! The one I’ve been avoiding because it was being resurfaced. SLOW Wet Tar! I try to spot a bit that has actually been resurfaced, but I fail to see a single loose chipping or bit of new Tarmac. As far as I can tell, all that has actually happened is that a lot of signs have been put up. Caution! No road markings! A sign to tell me there are no road markings? That’s a laugh. There haven’t been any for years!

 

Ooh, look at that woman up ahead, she’s got amazingly bright pink hair.

Oh, how disappointing. The bright pink hair turns out to be a bright pink hat.

Ooh, how flipping brilliant – that woman in the bright pink hat is Dellboy. Yay! Quick, park the car and say hello, haven’t seen her in aaages.

 

I proceed to have my reflexes tested by members of the Sheffield Society for Reversing Very Fast Out of Driveways.

 

A small boy at a nearby bus stop, his face a mask of concentration, solemnly performs a dance to no music.

 

That just leaves a brief encounter with a beautiful vintage car before I finally arrive at work.

 

“How was your journey?” asks a colleague.

“Not bad,” I reply, sweeping every minor incident under the carpet of conversational convenience.

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