Road Rain Ragin’

Aside

Midi Minx at 22 months old, Dec 2009. Not much has changed since.

I’m so ANGRY!!!!

To the Yummy Mummy in the Discovery the other day, blatting down the back road in the pouring rain:

Yes, dear, I *know* that the nasty rain is scary! It might smear your caked make-up and fluff-up your newly-straightened bleach job; it makes you faff about with all those hundreds of confusing levers, to find the windscreen wiper one; it sprays up when you drive so fast and stops you being able to see; and it makes Torquil and Desdemona in the back squeal when it touches their precious skin. But PLEASE don’t cuddle up to my car’s bumper for comfort, because:

  • I have a heart of black coal and don’t give a shit
  • I might have to stop faster than you can blink your heavy eyes
  • … actually, I can’t be arsed anymore: BRAKING DISTANCE, BRAKING DISTANCE, BRAKING DISTANCE you stupid fool. Look it up.

And to the pair of teen wannabe goths:

Stop sticking to other cars’ shadows. The light won’t really melt you. And you might live long enough to lose your virginity. If you’re really lucky.

Crazy Immortals!

Snow, snow, snow.  It’s deeper, frostier and more beautiful than my last post.  But I’m back to being my usual curmudgeonly self when it comes to snow.  It only took one short drive to do it.

Against my better judgement, I agreed to drive with the minxes and The Boss to a child’s birthday party today, through the snow and ice.  Said child is a lovely girl, and we all like her and her parents.  They live 15 mins drive away, along a road we travel 4 times a day on nursery days.  Both The Boss and I have a healthy respect for the snow and ice on the roads, having had some spectacular skids in the past, pre-kids.  Still, we decided that the risks of the journey were ones we would take on this occasion.

Now, maybe we’re getting old and realising our mortality.  Or maybe we were being super-cautious and risk-averse because of our 3 chattering bundles of joy in the rear seat.  But I really lose my sense of humour when some (inevitably) young boy drives right up behind the car, applying his brakes at the last minute, on a skidpan of a road.  The words ‘braking distance’ must have no register at all in that tiny little mind.  He may be young in years, but apparently too many of them have been spent being told how special he is – he is obviously not a mere mortal like me.  I can barely keep to the tyre-tracks never mind pull over to let him pass.  What do you want me to do, Hot Shot – beam up aboard a spaceship?!

As the unflappable Boss started to growl in the rear view mirror, I patted his hand in a wifely way.  “Dear, we have a spade in the boot.  If he shunts us and wakes the baby, I’ll deal with him and you can bury the evidence”.

That’s why The Boss married me – I’ve always got a back-up plan. 

The back-up plan