Okay, I admit it, I laughed.
But if you’re like me, then you would probably have afforded a wry little chuckle, too.
It was a car accident. Now, a collision isn’t something that should really bring a smile to your face. But in this case, it involved one of those boy-racers and his 20-year old Vauxhall Ashtray with the blacked-out windows and an exhaust pipe the size of a sewer pipe that’s designed to waken the whole county at 2am.
There it was, with its front end smashed and its headlights gazing skyward. The hapless super-driver stood mourn-faced at the side of it. And, yes, I smiled. Why? Because like every other driver, I’ve been overtaken at light-speed by one of these halfwits on a blind summit and found myself praying there wasn’t a packed family saloon tootling along in the opposite direction.
And like every other driver, I’ve had to stamp on the brakes as some young maniac who thinks he’s a world-class racing driver swerves across a roundabout to get the jump on somebody. Let’s not pull any punches here. They are a danger to themselves – which bothers me not a jot – and a danger to every other driver and pedestrian in their vicinity. Which bothers me a great deal.
So, there he was. This lonely figure wearing a daft hat that looked like an udder-warmer his granny had knitted, eyes brimming with tears as he surveyed his crumpled pride and joy. And I couldn’t help feeling thankful that there was one less moron on the road to put everybody’s life in jeopardy for the sake of a wee speed thrill. And one more whose increased insurance premium meant he wouldn’t be behind the wheel again for a long time.
I’m sorry if it makes me a bad person, but the sight made me feel good. And I laughed.