Many a slip

As sure as eggs…

The onset of the first serious frost and light smattering of snow is guaranteed to be the signal for half the drivers down our way to park their cars on the pavement to give them their Sunday afternoon jet wash, ready for the Christmas hostilities.

How are you, then, this fine morning?

One of those mornings where the front garden is full of the smell of new pine fence panels and primroses. I have decided that I need to make the time to enjoy these things while they are available.

As we join the motorway the car in front of us is a pretend sports car: a four-door saloon with a drop top and pretensions. It's such a nice morning that we forgive the driver the coat hangers on the backs of the seats. If we ever get a sports car we'll have a Corby trouserpress in the back.

Slush

It's been snowing in Manchester. Not the deep and crisp and even sort of snow. Just that typically-English light dusting, just enough to make it treacherous underfoot. People walking down Deansgate like so many Lego men. That sort of snow.

A bunch of us were crossing Lloyd Street when a middle-aged pig on a bicycle heaved into us all, shouting: "Get out of the way you fucking morons!" Which was a bit much given that most of us were halfway across the road before he'd even got to the junction and turned right into the road. He was a bit taken aback by the pedestrians' volley of well-meaning advice, though most of it would have been anatomically impossible, even with the best-greased of bicycles.

Things to do number eight

I missed my train home because I was stranded for five minutes trying to cross a not-particularly busy road. The problem? Every time a gap appeared some muffin would cut me off as they turned in from one or other of two feeder roads. Each time was a near thing because surprise, surprise, not one of them used their indicators to say where they were going.

Especially not the pillock who turned his car left then suddenly reeled it into a right turn. I remember reading about Himmelman Turns in my old Biggles books but I never expected to see one done in a Volvo. Luckily the weather's a bit grim so there was no chance of his diving in on me out of the sun.

When my times comes my response will be quick and efficient. I shall use the brass handle of my malacca cane to smash their indicators as they pass by.

"Your indicator's not working mate!"

I shall cry. Actually, it would be a pretty nifty superpower to be able to zap the indicators and blow the car's whole electrics...