When my kids were smaller, they were really difficult to get to have an afternoon nap as their sleeping patterns were just so different. The only thing guaranteed to make them snooze was a car ride. I would tell them “we will be at Nanny’s house soon” when in fact I was doing 35mph in a 60 zone via a circular route. I would have queues of irate drivers practically sat in my car boot invariably waving two fingers in my direction as they finally overtook. Quite often however the two fingered gesture was given by ‘boy racers’ to inform me of their disgust that I was driving a car which they would have cut off their left nut to drive, the much coveted Subaru Imprezza, and had the audacity to be a chick with kids not only driving slowly but carefully – Sacrilege!
Road Rage. Whether you are the victim or the bully, we all are involved in it every time we pull out of our driveway. I am not proud to admit that I have the mouth of a Trucker when I get behind the wheel, I am even less proud to admit that my children are my offspring when they tell some doddery old guy in the shopping aisle to “get outta my way, you bloody idiot”. Other mothers look at me with daggers that I should allow my children to talk in such a way whilst I am just pleased that they did not repeat some of the more creatively colourful terms which had flown out of my face earlier that morning.
Every time someone flies a bird in my direction, I flashback to an occasion when I was living in Reading. Some impatient bloke was harassing me to speed up by driving ridiculously close to my car even though I was doing the maximum speed of 30mph. I soon got annoyed and decided to slow down to 15mph knowing that he could not overtake. I figured if he was gonna have road rage, I might as well give him something worth raging about! As I turned left into my street he revved his engine and overtook me so dangerously that I instinctively shook my fist at him before turning into my driveway. That’s when I heard the screech of emergency brakes, followed by the crunching of gears. I backed up to see this guy’s car reversing back at speed before blocking off my escape route. “O’ Oh, I’m in trouble!” my friend Pete cringed into the passenger seat as the biggest Samuel L Jackson look-a-like slammed his door shut and thundered towards us. “Stay in the car and for your sake don’t get out. He might not hit a girl but he will pound the poo outta you!” I warned. Pete feebly agreed but ordered me not to antagonise him further.
“If you were a man I would knock you out” bellowed road rage guy, “wow aren’t you butch picking on girls” I retorted dismissively but my heart was hammering my chest. “Don’t be sweating me,” he snarled, fists clenched as he stepped towards me, “Sweating me? Oh please, what language are you speaking?” Was I nuts? Would have been a better question. From the corner of my eye I can see Pete with his head in his hands and I realised I might have played the ‘girl card’ a little too soon. To my relief the Road Rage Guy gave a roar and stomped back to his car, no doubt to stop himself from punching me. As I walked to my front door my jelly legs struggled to hold me up. I definitely learned my lesson on road rage though probably not about knowing when to just shut up.
I wonder if those who are perpetrators of road rage on a regular basis ever considered simply leaving the house a little earlier and therefore do not need to speed to arrive on time. Similarly the deliberate slowcoaches would do well to remember that they are almost as likely to cause accidents with their inconsistency. Oh how I love to spout wisdom; but as my time keeping is pants the likelihood of me abiding by my own advice is pretty much shot to shit!
Finally Boy Racers, let me explain guys. Your cars as chick magnets just don’t work and here is why – Girls do not understand the whole thing! A noisy exhaust to us just means that your car is clapped out. De-badge your car and we will only ever refer to it as ‘the red one’. Revving you engine and speeding off down the road only makes us think of all the poor bunnies you are about to squish, and as for wheel spinning to see how long your tyres can last before burning out, why? Do you really think a Sheila will be impressed when she realises how many shoes and handbags she could have bought with the money it costs to replace what were perfectly sound tyres? We Just Don’t Get It! But then if you really think about it guys, do you understand it either?