Seething with a barely controlled rage
I'm home now, finally back in Wales after six weeks away. Surprisingly little has changed in my absence, except that someone has snuck in and replaced me with a much fatter person. I can't do anything about that at the moment (other than eat less, of course), because I'm suffering from the inevitable international travel bug. At least it's not avian flu.
The journey south from Fife was not a good one. Driving in heavy rain and sideways gusting wind is not fun at the best of times; when the motorway is full to capacity it is even less so. Between Lancaster and Chester breaking the speed limit was no more than an idle dream, a fantasy to while away the dull hours. At times the traffic simply stopped, even though there were no roadworks or accidents. The M6 was just full.
And so into Wales, where 'Dual Carriageway' is a work of fiction. At least the traffic was moving after a fashion. At one point it looked like the journey might only take an hour and a half longer than normal. Then some idiot had to have a crash on the A44.
This happens with alarming regularity. The problem is that depending on whereabouts the accident occurs, it becomes necessary to close the road completely and put in diversions that can add fifty miles to your journey. Or more. This was one such accident. So close to home, and then an extra hour and a quarter added to the journey. For some obscure reason this made my angry - normally I'd just shrug my shoulders and get on with it. This time I felt a petulant, childish need to lash out at the unfairness of life. I could feel my blood boiling as I headed off towards Machynlleth.
Or maybe it was just the cold.
The journey south from Fife was not a good one. Driving in heavy rain and sideways gusting wind is not fun at the best of times; when the motorway is full to capacity it is even less so. Between Lancaster and Chester breaking the speed limit was no more than an idle dream, a fantasy to while away the dull hours. At times the traffic simply stopped, even though there were no roadworks or accidents. The M6 was just full.
And so into Wales, where 'Dual Carriageway' is a work of fiction. At least the traffic was moving after a fashion. At one point it looked like the journey might only take an hour and a half longer than normal. Then some idiot had to have a crash on the A44.
This happens with alarming regularity. The problem is that depending on whereabouts the accident occurs, it becomes necessary to close the road completely and put in diversions that can add fifty miles to your journey. Or more. This was one such accident. So close to home, and then an extra hour and a quarter added to the journey. For some obscure reason this made my angry - normally I'd just shrug my shoulders and get on with it. This time I felt a petulant, childish need to lash out at the unfairness of life. I could feel my blood boiling as I headed off towards Machynlleth.
Or maybe it was just the cold.
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