Season of Mists

Ah Britain in the Spring. Yesterday was warm enough for me to switch the fan to blue, today my breath hung in the air. Mist lay on the streets as I left this morning, I pulled out of my house and joined the queue for the town. I had seen a couple of cars before me using a nearby road as a turning point to whistle back past me in an effort to cheat the line. Two cars ahead a Land-Rover wannabe did a turn in the road, bumped up the opposite kerb onto the pavement and over the grass. I decided to stay put.

We moved forward surprisingly quickly given the behaviour of some drivers, a couple of times cars couldn't pull out of one of the junctions to join the queue as some of its members had decided to leave a gap of a couple of car lengths between themselves. A dearth of traffic in both directions made up for that though. I wanted to turn right so I pulled over to the left; odd you might think, but it was either that or shudder my way over a set of potholes that had strung themselves across the junction entrance. Then it was just sitting, waiting.

Movement in the side-mirror alerted me to the bicycle. I was out from the pavement, but I could spare another couple of inches and edged over. An attractive women in a tight pair of trousers headed past before being stopped a few cars up by someone who seemed to want to get intimate with a drain. She edged past carefully.

At a certain point the traffic picks up, I nipped forward and the car gave a jolt as I went through something next to Areley Lane. I looked back to see, but a cold 4x4 had pulled out sharply behind me it's engine making a noise like a strangled car-alarm on helium. I spotted the Land-Rover wannabe 4 cars behind, those are the chances you take around here he could just as well have been 4 cars ahead.

Then we were moving the queue jumping forward like a jack-rabbit, out of first into second into third. Reaching the lights on the bridge the queue before me stalled stuck on the wrong side of the road. I declined to join them and waited at the lights. For my reward they turned red and the queue started forward. I eased the car back a little; I was on the right side of the road, but close to the edge and I'd seen only the other day the effect that had on a Londis van trying to squeeze its bulk through the narrow passage.

A motorbike slipped past and pulled in before me the engine racing, angry at being halted for such petty reasons. The cars flowed towards me on and on, slowing as they approached for no good reason. The lights changed with three cars still to cross, they passed quickly and the lights stayed green as I raced the bike over the bridge.

I fixed my eyes on the crossing in Bridge Street, it'll change it's bound to. The green light mocked my thoughts as I reached High Street and was reunited with my compatriots from before.

Looking right York Street was choked; ahead High Street was snarled, a security van and a delivery van on the right both parked next to the "No Loading 8:30-9:00", another further up was parked on the left. The car in front started to signal left at the end of High Street. Are you pulling-in to get to the bank, turning left down the passage, or just informing the world that you're turning left down this left-turn only lane? I kept my distance and they pulled into the passage. The York Street shuffle had worked it's way down Lion Hill and round to the close the end of High Street and stretch back down Mitton Road. With two lanes in Vale Road closed we should be moving at a fair clip, instead cars dutifully stopped as always to see if they could pull in to the right-most lane.

Gilgal was clear as a bell and I chased the end of the Mitton Street queue down Worcester Road up to to and around the island and then down to the car-sales where it petered out. As always clear sailing from that point on.