Today was a day when it was foggy. I wasn’t sure what it was at first, the funny foggy stuff that was obscuring my view. But then as I reached the motorway, and the electronic matrix signs started flashing the word “fog“. It all became clear.
The man who owns the paper-shop never looks at the headlines. The woman in the Post Office who never sends anything through the post. They might play cards together on a Wednesday afternoon, glance out a dirty window, and try and wake up the day with a dirty smile. But they already realise that it’s never going to change.
Up come the motorway road-works. I realise they’re road-works because a sign tells me I’m only allowed to go at 50mph and there’s a couple of cones on the side of the road…but that’s it. Motorway road-works never have works on road. Who’d want to hold a Stop/Go sign on the hard-shoulder of the M4 unless they were tanked up on Stella and their name had one-syllable.
‘You have to keep the floors clean in this job…’ says the man in the off-license chewing the end of a biro he’s no reason to ever use, ‘…you look in the eyes of everyone who walks through that door and they always fall down.”
I can see a speed camera on the left. These don’t have film, they’ve got satellites. Pictures of BMWs being spunked out into the heavens. Slowdown speedup and then slowdown again. Accelerate hard away when you’re out of the camera’s range. A smug smile at beating the system; even though it’s in a chronically sad and irrelevant way.