On Bad Karma
The Silver Hornet – the Renault Scenic of DOOM – rolled along the Bath Road in Reading, its sole occupant lulled into a false sense of security by the dulcet Walsall tones of The Boy Peach on BBC Berkshire.
With no warning, I was ripped from my reverie by a car darting out of a side-road without so much as a by-your-leave-good-sir, a demented grimace on the driver's face, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Then, with equal lack of warning, he slammed on his brakes, leapt out of the car and started remonstrating loudly with a group of schoolkids trying to cross the road. I dare say that fire and brimstone would have sparked from his fingers given half a chance; while I could not help but notice that his front seat passenger had already adopted the position known as the "facepalm".
I was so cross – dear reader – that I almost said something.
And then, his rant complete and the rough-kids-from-the-flats already showing him the middle finger, he jumped back into his car, performed a bizarre U-turn in the face of oncoming traffic and screeched to a halt under the Eight-Spoked Wheel of Dharma of Reading Buddhist Centre.
And so to work.
If I believed in such a thing, I hope he comes back as a slug.