Lost highway

Deep breaths. Swap ‘Hound Dog’ Taylor for Toumanie Diabaté. Wind window down, rest bare arm on sill. Feel warm breeze on bonce. Tell self to overcome anger as only hurting self. Tell self to count blessings, live in moment. Tell self kids back at school next week, after which fewer holidaymakers, traffic less horrendous. Tell self, finally, no need to hurry, film doesn’t start for an hour.

A sharp bend in the road ahead. Our procession goes very slowly round the bend then comes to a dead stop. The combine harvester has caught up with the tail end of a queue of stationary traffic snaking down to the T-junction. I can see police down at the T-junction and a line of cones across the road. The police are telling drivers they can’t turn right, by the look of it. I can see cars wanting to turn right hesitantly heading off left. There must have been a serious accident on the main road into town. With fatalities, judging by the number of police milling about at the junction and their pious body language.

Bloody marvellous. Just my luck. The first time I’m allowed out for a week and some pillock — a holidaymaker, no doubt — goes and has a head-on collision, blocking the main road for hours and making me miss my film. Why do the police have to close the road for so long? They like showing off, that’s all. All that posturing with clipboards and tape measures. All that standing around in the middle of the road just because they can and chatting among themselves like farmers on market day. Why not get the debris shifted, sweep up and ask questions afterwards so we can all get on with our lives?

Twenty-five minutes later it’s my turn to front up at the T-junction and be told I can’t turn right.