You are driving along
sedately when a vehicle coming from the other direction toots its
horn. Who? Me? What? Trafficator not cancelled? Foglights left on?
Too close to the crown of the road? What? I crane my neck to see if I
have a muntjac wedged in the radiator grill. I check to be sure my
doors are all closed and my seatbelt securely fastened. I even check
my flies. Bafflement. Perhaps it was someone who recognised me?
Perhaps it was someone who hates me because of the way I voted at the
last election?
By now, I am a bundle
of nerves. I hate mysteries. And I need to know what I was doing
wrong. Because, you can be sure that I, brought up on a diet of cod
liver oil and guilt, always assume that everything is my fault.
Then I try on a
different thought for size: maybe the hoot wasn't directed at me at
all. The bastard! How dare he ignore me?!
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