I wrote this in my sleep what wanker cuts a cyclist off on a balmy Sunday afternoon in London, their car veering without warning to the left, the cyclist by instinct of survival doing the same because I was dreaming about this post, not especially this one but this act of waking at four in the morning and writing, and so my dreams are filled with words. It was me who did the cutting off, who wasn’t concentrating. I couldn’t get over the traffic. I was tired. It had been a long week and these are all excuses for not looking in my mirror in Wandsworth. I saw him too late, the cyclist, only when he swung with the same arc as me, pushed to avoid collision, so vulnerable on his bike, me in metal, but his face didn’t look vulnerable as I mouthed sorry and when he pulled over and dismounted I thought he was going to hit me but instead he waved me on with the angriest arm, I didn’t know arms could be angry. I thought that was it. I apologised again in my head. Someone leaned on their horn behind me and I thought Christ, London’s in a mood. I was glad they weren’t shouting at me. The glass towers of Vauxhall rose on either side, the river splashed beyond the buildings, traffic lights changed and I slowed, a black Mazda pulled in front of me and slammed on its break lights. The door opened and a man got out. My window was open. He came straight at me, hands flung wide, furious before I could hear him, you don’t cut people off, you don’t cut people off on repeat, he must have said it three times standing far enough back to stop traffic. But I hadn’t. Not him. And that feeling when a car screeches and a door opens violently and a man comes hurtling at an open window. The vulnerability of being seated while a man standing shouts. My face, my body exposed. I think I said Oh and thought afterwards maybe he was a cyclist vigilante, out to protect two wheels in his four, that the veering episode of ten minutes before was become his bête noir, that he’d followed me, was come for me, that I hadn’t been sorry enough. Or he was nuts. Or having a bad day. Or just another wanker like me.
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Oh no... I was a passenger one day and answered a work call on my mobile. The car in front of us was being weird and I yelled out, well you can just and f$%k yourself. I did this into the phone. While I was talking to a customer. Something just happens when you feel road rage.
So many wankers