The following writing pertains to yesterday’s 22nd Theory which, if I recall, pertained to reckless tooters.
I took my 86-year-old grandmother into town yesterday on a belated birthday treat, following posting of the above Theory, to purchase some essential items. During our return, having successfully picked up the half metre of matching fabric for her dressing gown, it was while approaching a roundabout in Rolleston that I momentarily confused myself as to which direction I was supposed to be going, messed up my hand placement on the steering wheel then in a flurry of misdirection quickly replaced my hands which, shock horror, resulted in a prolonged blast of the horn.
This mishap wouldn’t have been so serious, only at the time there was another vehicle driving through the roundabout, directly in front of me.
I recall seeing the driver turn his head sharply as I released my apparent stream of audio indignation, I saw his face contort into an expression of guilty confusion; alas my hand misplacement was so severe that I was unable to even raise it apologetically to allay his worries as he passed.
Honestly, I felt like a prick. That man’s woeful countenance will undoubtedly haunt me for months.
Sorry about that, bud.
Article by Tim Walker
Photography by Witter Prick
Edited by Han Misp Lace-Mint