On the subject of forward motion
What’s wrong with people these days, eh? Pfft.
I don’t mean you, obviously. As a visitor and possible subscriber to this blog, you have elevated yourself into spheres quite unheard of by mere ‘people’. You, my dear, dear squidlet, who are more God than person, are exempt from such tawdry classifications. I mean everyone else.
Like that chap over there. Yes, you.
Why do you insist on marching along at twenty miles an hour, head down, brain sucked through the screen of your blackcurrant into the sanity vortex generated by a billion pointless emails, expecting me to not walk into you when I’m doing exactly the same thing in the opposite direction. Seriously. Watch where I’m going.
While I’m on the subject, I don’t know very much about cars. I know I wasn’t on the subject, but that’s only because I cut and pasted a paragraph about cars from above this one to down there somewhere, because it seemed to need a shady corner. Anyway, while I’m on the subject of cars… Being Man, I know that I ought to be turgidly aquiver in the presence of a roaring tin can full of horsepowers and valves and shit. I’m not though. Cars are divided into two categories: the one with which I’m trying not to murder anyone and all the others that have no interest in returning the favour. Bastards. Not you, obviously.
Sometimes I might notice one if it’s covered entirely in grass or being driven by an ostrich or something.
My idea of driving involves stomping on the pedals, twiddling the wheel and furiously waggling the gear-cruncher so as to arrive as near as reasonably practicable to point B with minimal fatalities. I may not be among the best ninty eight per cent of drivers, but I can steer with my knees for long enough to eat two happy meals and a mango.