I absolutely love driving. I think those four words probably sum me up best and there are very few occasions when that fact is ever in doubt. Unless a white van is involved I rarely get agitated with other road users. Speed humps are annoying but rather than get angry and drive over them at 100mph and slice my car in two, I’m happy to tip-toe over them. Having said this, there is one motoring phenomenon that seems to be ever growing that I quite simply cannot cope with – the traffic jam. Spending more and more of your time sitting in a pool of your own sweat frantically trying not to overuse the clutch as you edge forward at one mile and hour is not an enjoyable experience.
There was one occasion where I lost my mind completely and it’ll come as no surprise the city of London was involved. Having driven for six hours, I was now lost in a suburb somewhere that flirted with the congestion charge but managed to skirt around the five pound boundary. Brixton was my intended destination but even the road signs were shrugging their shoulders saying “dunno you silly Welshman”. The icing on the cake hit after nine hours – no I’m not exaggerating. Reaching a t-junction that turned onto a 70mph intersection the traffic lights weren’t working. I stopped as the lights were red – a stupid decision apparently as I was met with an audible squeal of tires behind me as a bunch of cockneys skidded inches away from me. After much horn pressing, swearing and seemingly no break in the 70mph traffic I did the only thing I could – closed my eyes, welded my foot to the floor and repented for my sins. Somehow I made it and when I got lost and ended up at the same junction again it seemed far easier the second time over.
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