It’s Monday 6pm, prematurely dark, and rather wet. I’m standing facing Khyber Pass Road looking for a clearway to cross, but the heavy rain has extended inner city rush-hour traffic by another hour. It’s not the sort of day you want to be driving a car.
I see the traffic lights at Symonds Street/Newton Road signal green, and instantly there’s the roaring sound of a modified vehicle screaming through the intersection.
I’ll never understand how spending money you don’t have, on useless modifications to impress people you don’t like, is supposed to enlarge a driver’s manliness (or manliness-by-proxy if they’re female). If anything, a modified vehicle is synonymous with bad, incompetent driving.
As the car comes hurtling towards me on a wet, greasy road in poor visibility, it’s only luck keeping the driver from having an accident or losing control.
I extend my arm, and give them a solid phalangic gesture.
I continue on my way. As I cross more roads, courteous drivers stop to let me pass and scurry on home in the torrential wetness. And I’m suddenly overwhelemd with guilt. Not for potentially offending the driver with an IQ lower than a great tit, but for the dozens of other users who shared the road and bore witness to my moment of frustration.
As I make it home, I relate my experience to Beau. He assures me he heard no accounts on the police radio about some crazy wet lady gesticulating in the rain.
Maybe I should arm myself with a spray can instead?