Two days in a row the same set of traffic lights have seen the red mist descend. The junction of the A5 and French’s Avenue to the north of Dunstable.
It seems straight forward enough but heading north I have to take the right hand lane. I am wearing red. Flashing lights in sunlight. Look over my right shoulder and keep a straight line. But out enough to take the lane. Including the island with the traffic lights there are three island pinch points waiting form me to be squeezed. Clearly I am not out far enough as the Astra behind squeezes past close enough for engine heat to curl the hairs on my legs. I gesture with a phone signal with my hand. A kind of “call me if you want to get that close”. He reacts. Slows. Opens his passenger window and shouts “how much soace do you want?” or words to that effect. “Just the legal amount will do” is my reply. He reacted more but I have no idea what he was saying.
For the second day on the trott I had gone against my own rule of not picking fights with those in metal boxes. I’m not proud. But sometimes you have to let them know that they are dangerous and illegal.
To put a smile on my face I catch him up three miles later at the Hockliffe lights, this time opting to avoid confrontation.
I hope he had a really bad day.