At the tail end of a hot day, I was walking home from the shops with a bottle of wine and a meerkat reminding me that I said I wouldn’t buy wine. Right after we had crossed the road at a zebra crossing (or a skunk crossing, as Kit calls them), we were startled by the quick blast of a horn.
‘That was an aggressive hooter!’ Kit exclaimed, prompting unsolicited visions of Madonna in the 1990s.
And suddenly, alarmingly, around the corner we had very recently vacated, hurtled a hatchback on the wrong side of the road. It weaved in between several deaf motorists communicating in sign language, narrowly avoiding them before mounting a traffic island as if its only desire was to make baby traffic islands. Dismounting, it continued on its way as if nothing had happened, leaving the traffic island a shattered replica of its former self (both literally and figuratively).
I may have forgotten to mention that the hatchback missed a blind man walking down the road with a cane by mere seconds. It would have made his day if he had had any idea what had happened. You couldn’t make this shit up!
Kit and I are off to buy a Lotto ticket. But first, some wine to soothe my shattered nerves.
No Traffic Islanders were harmed in the telling of this story.
