Today I’m afraid my post is a whinge. A gripe. A sounding off. I’m sitting in my living room after coming back from a trip to the local shop to buy some of their very nice, fat sausages. The trip began very well, the sun was shining and Olive jumped into the car to keep me company. I plugged in the iPod and as Daniel Merriweather sang, Could You, I drove down the lane. The lane down from our house becomes a single track before it travels through the tiny village of Merosci and joins the main strada. I’m driving along, minding my own business when I glance in the rear view mirror to see that I’m being tailgated by a man in an Audi. I assume he’ll overtake me when we get onto the straight, wide part of the road, but no, his bumper still hugs mine. That is until we come to a blind bend and he puts his foot down and overtakes me, narrowly missing the oncoming car he fails to see.
I’m driving back and the iPod shuffles, this time a song from my misspent youth plays, Shockwork by Test Dept, from the Batcave album, Young Limbs and Numb Hymns. I liked the Batcave club in London so much I had a bat tattoo on my arm as a memento. The things we do in our youth. I reach the junction for Merosci, indicate my intention to turn left, and look in my rear view mirror just as woman in a Fiat; mobile phone pressed to her ear overtakes me, causing me to brake sharply. I shake my head, not in disbelief but in fury. It’s no wonder the Italians get such a bad press regarding their driving habits.