Motoring: it drives you round the bend. If ever I move back to the city – or, more likely, a town – I’d seriously consider ditching the car.
A vehicle is necessary in the country and useful in town for the weekly shop. But cities have become anti-car, with roads cut off everywhere, usually for the benefit of cyclists.
Take a cut lunch…
In Edinburgh, with added disruption caused by laying tram lines, for any journey that used to take 15 minutes I’d advise taking a flask and sandwiches.
In Dunfermline recently, I’d a trying time, probably because for the best part of a year I’d driven on nothing but the same country road every day, so I wasn’t used to the bewildering (to me) choices coming off the M90 nor, in the newer suburbs, to the many invisible roundabouts.
Repeatedly, I breenged through these without knowing to look right because they’d no raised centre and were only marked with weather-worn lines.
The roundabout warning signs, only noticeable once you’re on the roundabout, weren’t much help either.
Oh, the neds!
I noticed neds in noisy, souped-up saloons too: so 1980s! I remain convinced that males should not be allowed motor vehicles until they’re at least 40-years-old.
The island where I live is heaving with tourists, and I’ve noticed visitors complaining on Twitter about the driving, noting in particular slow, arrogant holidaymakers causing frustrated local drivers behind them to overtake on blind bends.
Perhaps the deliberate dawdlers think they’re adapting to the now mythical slower pace of life.
But we have appointments to keep, or perhaps urgent family events such as illness to attend, just like anyone else.
Slow drivers get me started
Slow drivers are part of a similarly minded tribe. Clearly, they enjoy causing great tailbacks behind them, and never stop at lay-bys to let these queues past, as signs advise them to do.
And they always do the same thing: they speed up when there’s a chance for folk to overtake, causing danger to anyone trying it.
Driving below the speed limit on open roads, they drive above it going through villages or places with signs warning that children might be playing. So they’re not safe at all. They’re deranged.
Generally speaking, once I’m on the mainland, where there are two overtaking possibilities within 50 miles, I’ll have a slowcoach in front and a tailgater behind: two sides of the same coin.
Recently, I saw one slowcoach catching up with someone even slower – and tailgating them!
Where would I eat?
Of course, if I ditched the car I wouldn’t know where to eat my lunch or dinner when away from home. As you know, my car is my favourite restaurant.
I like the cosiness of it, and the guilty feeling of inappropriateness, particularly with an Indian or Chinese take-away (remember the wee wooden fork!).
Failing that, I’ll find the nearest cemetery. Recently, I was privileged to eat my lunchtime Markies sandwiches and Belgian bun in the graveyard beside Dunfermline Abbey (shout-out to the friendly and helpful stewards there, by the way; great place to visit).
I must say I’m not overly comfortable on public transport. There’s always at least one nutter on every bus: is that a council by-law?
Mind you, perhaps folk see me getting on and think: ‘Oh lordy, here comes the nutter.’
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