Road Rage

I went to Hammersmith for a haircut yesterday. And it's very nice, thank you for asking.

The salon I go to belongs to Steve's uncle (Steve being my sisters boyfriend). It's slightly off the beaten track, so the best way to get there is to drive.

So early Saturday morning I'm pootling along to Hammersmith with Steve in tow. It's my sisters car. It's yellow with a pink steering wheel so I was wearing a ski mask too. No, not to rob a bank, but in fear someone might recognise me.

One sausage sandwich, a cup of tea and a haircut later I'm pootling along back to Camberwell when all of a sudden at the Brixton/Camberwell junction at Vauxhall I get cut up by a White Van Man.

Now there are a variety of methods for demonstrating your annoyance. I didn't give him the finger because it's not big nor clever, children. Besides, he wouldn't have seen me. So instead I went to sound my horn. But it wasn't where it was supposed to be. So instead I washed my windows at him. Vigorously.

I think that I really taught him a lesson and obviously he drove away in terror, vowing never to cut up another female driver. In a yellow car with a pink steering wheel.