Today takes me to Stafford. There is the choice of normal M6 or special M6 (with toll attached). Although, of course, both routes come with a price tag. One is financial, the other is emotional. I choose to pay the emotional toll, and am stuck behind an elephant race. A dogged cavalcade of lorries pretending to overtake each other but actually just staying two abreast. Probably comparing cab curtains. Which means that everyone else is seething in the 'fast' lane behind an old man in a Honda Civic, resolutely driving just a fraction faster than the lorries.
As always, when I make this decision, I realise that it is the wrong one. It is absolutely worth the cash for the unalloyed joy of spanking up a deserted road like it's the 1970s.
Oh God. I sound like Jeremy Clarkson. Eugh.
I could go on to extend this whole toll shtick into a metaphor for the price you pay for things in life, but quite frankly I can't be arsed.
Shit. I have, haven't I? Somewhere along the M6 I've caught Clarkson. (Checks mirror anxiously for symptoms - eg chin enlargement and racism.)
As always, when I make this decision, I realise that it is the wrong one. It is absolutely worth the cash for the unalloyed joy of spanking up a deserted road like it's the 1970s. 
No comments:
Post a Comment