Moss Lane, Wrightington

Today was bitterly cold. The temperature gauge in the car read -4'C this morning. With a slight wind blowing, I was freezing. The car was coated with a slight dusting of snow, although the t.v. informs me that half the country is covered in ankle deep snow.

I love the snow. In fact I am that rare breed of person that likes all weather. Rain, hail, wind, snow, I am not bothered, I love it.

For some reason, the windscreen on my car had no ice on it whatsoever. I just started the car, clenched my freezing buttocks, momentarily imagined my hands freezing to the steering wheel, then took of on my travels.

One of the perks of driving through Wrightington in winter, is seeing other motorists, usually commuters driving much too fast, climbing out of the gap in the hedge, leaving their fine vehicles stranded in the field.

One would have thought, that the total absence of salt on all the B roads through Wrightington, would indicate that the roads are slippy and dangerous. Indeed, the presence of sheets of ice and holes in the hedges from previous accidents, would also cast doubt on the wisdom of racing to work via the winding country roads of Wrightington. Alas, I thought wrong.

This morning I was driving along at a stately, yet safe 15 mph. Then I caught site of a black sporty BMW in my rear view mirror. It appeared to be coming at me from behind at about 60 mph. My buttocks, which had only just begun to relax and relish the heated seat, immediately reclenched, preparing for the worst.

At the very last split-second before rear impact, the 'racing' car, which I can confirm was a BMW, pulled out in from behind me and overtook. With my buttocks clenched into a solid ring, and my hands, arms and shoulders welded to the steering wheel, I glanced sideways as the black menace seered by.

What I saw baffled me. He was obviously human, of that there is no doubt. He was a young man, around 20 years old, well groomed, but... But how can I describe his expression?

His childish look of anger and distaste, indicated that at some recent point in the past, I personally had defacated in his mouth, whilst simultaneously proving beyond reasonable doubt, that his mother had never loved him. If indeed, she ever was his mother.

A variety of thoughts all appeared to happen at once. I thought,
'He is going to fast'.
'How the hell can he afford to drive that car?'.
'Lucky bastard'.
'What the hell is he looking at?'.
'Mummies boy'.
'He's going to kill himself, driving like that'.
That last thought broke my indignancy. It was then that I realised, that I was indeed about to witness an accident.

About 300 yards ahead was a bend that is always covered in ice in winter. I just took my foot of the accelerator and watched.

I saw him driving at about 60.
I saw him, no, I felt him 'see' the ice.
I saw the brake lights come on.
I saw a brief, almost flirtish waggle of back end BMW.
Then I saw his beautiful car disappear through the hedge.

I couldn't help it. I knew I shouldn't. But I smiled. Just briefly. But enough to vindicate myself, my driving. With justice arrogantly coursing my veins, I uttered 'You stupid bastard'.

My car, my co-accused, my vindicated partner, together we idled towards the hole in the hedge.
We saw Mummies Boy get out of the car, (it was probably hers).
We saw he was OK, just shaken. He had a smart blue shirt on and a 'Aren't I a big guy now?' red tie.

Even though I was still travelling at 15 mph, even though he was now 50 yards away, I could still make out his frozen nipples, prodding, like little fingers against his fancy shirt. I hadn't finished with him yet. Once more, with shear, smug, warm-arsed pleasure, I uttered 'You stupid bastard'.

I could see him on his mobile. The cocky, boy racer was now in trouble. His toothy snarl no longer present. His spitty venom left in the soil-sprinkled BMW. He was worried. He was upset.
No. He was more than upset. He was devastated.

His world, his new found dream, his adventure into manhood had been pulled from under him.
And now he just wanted his mum. Or his dad. It didn't really matter which.
He just wanted to be loved.

As my plodding car glided past the newly-made opening in the hedge, our eyes met. I raised my arm instinctively, waving, enquiring, caring, offering... In a timeless glimpse, we became friends. He ushered me on my way, silently thanking me. He was going to be OK.

He just wanted to be loved.
And I guess we all know what that's like.