 |
| One day we'll meet this guy and his mates... |
All was peaceful. The sun filtered through the hedgerows, the birds twittered, but then the silence was broken by loud and angry shouting.
"You CUUUUNNNNTTTT! You fucking CUUUUNNNTT!!!! You WAAAAAANNKER!!!!"
A grey blur on a bike, a Kona Blast, passed from behind me, angrily shaking his right fist in the air. He was pursuing a blue Astra in an attempt to reach the car before it turned left at the junction with Clarks Lane, heading for Westerham, but he was too late.
Myself and another cyclist exchanged glances and then things calmed down.
I found myself wondering what might have happened if the cyclist had managed to catch up with the driver, but just like the other week, when fists were raised and expletives exchanged close to Chelsham Sainsbury's, eventually the driver jumped back in his car and drove off. Back then, my chief worry was if all four doors of the Mercedes estate had opened and a bunch of tattooed Brexiteers had emerged.
Sooner or later, of course, something of that ilk will occur.
"Have you calmed down?" I enquired when we reached the bus stop, assuming (rightly) that the rage was a result of the car driver passing too close.
Andy smiled, but said nothing. I opened up the flask and prepared the tea and we sat there munching biscuits while discussing the sort of car we might buy if we won the lottery. All the usual suspects were considered, but, oddly perhaps, we decided upon a 1985 Nissan Patrol. Stranger things and all that...
It was time to ride home.
