way through the gears and down
to first. A few hundred cars tightened up to a crawl and all too inevitably we
ground to a halt.
“Oh, what is this now?” I moaned, winding down the window
and craning my head out when I saw some guy in front do something similar. I
couldn’t see anything but then again neither could he, so we both ducked back
into our cars and speculated with our respective partners as to what the
problem could be.
“It’s probably a crash,” Sally said, underlining those few
carefully considered words with a tone that didn’t make it past my emotional
blinkers.
“Well I hope it’s nothing serious, we’re only half a mile
from our turning.”
We sat in the same spot for another thirty frustrating
minutes before a gradual trickle of movement started shifting cars from our
view. I started up the engine and waited expectantly for the movement to reach
us and when it did a clear stretch of motorway, roughly the size of a family
saloon, opened up in front of us. I drove straight into it, and then another
bit of motorway opened up, and so I drove into that one too and so on until
three lanes merged into one and we circumvented a twisted heap of steel and
glass that looked like it used to be several different cars. Astonishingly, no
bits looked like they used to be attached to a BMW, which meant my
finger-waving friend had been stuck in this same mess along with the rest of
us, no doubt flashing his lights and hooting his horn at the logjam in front of
him. Ambulance men and policemen were already on the scene and doing their best
to clear the road and keep the traffic moving, though the wreckage was strewn
right across three lanes, so we were having to be directed onto the hard
shoulder.
The cars were already empty and I wondered how their
occupants had faired. One of the wrecks looked as though it could’ve been
walked away from, though I doubted the same could’ve been said of the Vauxhall
Corsa wrapped around the central reservation barrier. That one was mess. A tin
can crushed to bits by rampaging elephants.
“I hope they’re okay,” Sally said, looking past me as I
steered my way around the accident.
“Yeah, me too,” I agreed, though I didn’t hold out much
hope.
All at once the traffic cones and police tape ended and the
motorway opened up in front of us again. I moved through the gears up to
fourth, and then fifth, but stayed under 60mph for the last half a mile. Other
cars sped past me like a hail of bullets but I wasn’t interested in keeping
pace with them any more. The turning for Camberley soon appeared, so I checked
my mirrors and pressed down the indicator, signalling an end to mine and
Sally’s motorway adventure.
To tell the truth, it hadn’t been the best car journey of
our lives.
But at least it hadn’t been the last.
Sally’s Diary: December 27th
The relief at being home again is
tempered by yet another little niggling row. Andrew and I don’t have blazing
rows. I wish we did because I bet they’re easier to patch up than our niggling
ones. With niggling rows they’re almost always over something that’s so tiny,
so petty that neither of us want to talk them through for fear of being thought
of as tiny and petty ourselves. So what do we do to do? Well, I usually bite my
tongue and try to keep the peace, but this rarely works as the niggling just
ends up hanging in the air, drifting from one day to the next. I hate niggling
rows, I really do, but they seem to just keep coming out of nowhere. Last week’s
happened because Norman bought Andrew a bottle of wine for Christmas.
Seriously, Norman got him a present, a lovely bottle of sparkling wine and told
him to enjoy it with his Christmas dinner and Andrew launched into a rant about
how it was some devious move to try and buy his respect. “Of course, now I’ve
got to buy him something and how he’d like that, hey!” he fumed, working
himself up into one.
Andrew’s not really one to listen to anyone
to first. A few hundred cars tightened up to a crawl and all too inevitably we
ground to a halt.
“Oh, what is this now?” I moaned, winding down the window
and craning my head out when I saw some guy in front do something similar. I
couldn’t see anything but then again neither could he, so we both ducked back
into our cars and speculated with our respective partners as to what the
problem could be.
“It’s probably a crash,” Sally said, underlining those few
carefully considered words with a tone that didn’t make it past my emotional
blinkers.
“Well I hope it’s nothing serious, we’re only half a mile
from our turning.”
We sat in the same spot for another thirty frustrating
minutes before a gradual trickle of movement started shifting cars from our
view. I started up the engine and waited expectantly for the movement to reach
us and when it did a clear stretch of motorway, roughly the size of a family
saloon, opened up in front of us. I drove straight into it, and then another
bit of motorway opened up, and so I drove into that one too and so on until
three lanes merged into one and we circumvented a twisted heap of steel and
glass that looked like it used to be several different cars. Astonishingly, no
bits looked like they used to be attached to a BMW, which meant my
finger-waving friend had been stuck in this same mess along with the rest of
us, no doubt flashing his lights and hooting his horn at the logjam in front of
him. Ambulance men and policemen were already on the scene and doing their best
to clear the road and keep the traffic moving, though the wreckage was strewn
right across three lanes, so we were having to be directed onto the hard
shoulder.
The cars were already empty and I wondered how their
occupants had faired. One of the wrecks looked as though it could’ve been
walked away from, though I doubted the same could’ve been said of the Vauxhall
Corsa wrapped around the central reservation barrier. That one was mess. A tin
can crushed to bits by rampaging elephants.
“I hope they’re okay,” Sally said, looking past me as I
steered my way around the accident.
“Yeah, me too,” I agreed, though I didn’t hold out much
hope.
All at once the traffic cones and police tape ended and the
motorway opened up in front of us again. I moved through the gears up to
fourth, and then fifth, but stayed under 60mph for the last half a mile. Other
cars sped past me like a hail of bullets but I wasn’t interested in keeping
pace with them any more. The turning for Camberley soon appeared, so I checked
my mirrors and pressed down the indicator, signalling an end to mine and
Sally’s motorway adventure.
To tell the truth, it hadn’t been the best car journey of
our lives.
But at least it hadn’t been the last.
Sally’s Diary: December 27th
The relief at being home again is
tempered by yet another little niggling row. Andrew and I don’t have blazing
rows. I wish we did because I bet they’re easier to patch up than our niggling
ones. With niggling rows they’re almost always over something that’s so tiny,
so petty that neither of us want to talk them through for fear of being thought
of as tiny and petty ourselves. So what do we do to do? Well, I usually bite my
tongue and try to keep the peace, but this rarely works as the niggling just
ends up hanging in the air, drifting from one day to the next. I hate niggling
rows, I really do, but they seem to just keep coming out of nowhere. Last week’s
happened because Norman bought Andrew a bottle of wine for Christmas.
Seriously, Norman got him a present, a lovely bottle of sparkling wine and told
him to enjoy it with his Christmas dinner and Andrew launched into a rant about
how it was some devious move to try and buy his respect. “Of course, now I’ve
got to buy him something and how he’d like that, hey!” he fumed, working
himself up into one.
Andrew’s not really one to listen to anyone
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