Tuesday, 10 November 2015

Giving a hoot

You are driving along sedately when a vehicle coming from the other direction toots its horn. Who? Me? What? Trafficator not cancelled? Foglights left on? Too close to the crown of the road? What? I crane my neck to see if I have a muntjac wedged in the radiator grill. I check to be sure my doors are all closed and my seatbelt securely fastened. I even check my flies. Bafflement. Perhaps it was someone who recognised me? Perhaps it was someone who hates me because of the way I voted at the last election?
By now, I am a bundle of nerves. I hate mysteries. And I need to know what I was doing wrong. Because, you can be sure that I, brought up on a diet of cod liver oil and guilt, always assume that everything is my fault.

Then I try on a different thought for size: maybe the hoot wasn't directed at me at all. The bastard! How dare he ignore me?!

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