Despite the minicab drivers, boy racers, weekend millionaires in hired BMW M3s, hooded yoofs who think it’s wussy to use pedestrian crossings, the weather, stray dogs, falling branches, bendy buses, pizza delivery mopeds, phone-yakking Audi drivers, spilled diesel, National Express coaches and cyclists without lights, riding home on my PX is stil preferable to the Kafkaesque bureaucratic hoops my employer makes you jump through to get a cab home, even when working very late.
The ride last night was a quiet one, but I had more near-misses than usual, and the pavements were full of shouting drunks. Near my house a silver Golf missed me by inches, as it cut the corner of the junction I waited at. There was more shouting from a group of Eastern Europeans saying their goodnights nearby. A couple of minutes from home some nutcase also had a rant, this time jumping off the kerb to point at me with both hands. I gave him two fingers and carried on.
Hang on. What did he say?
“You haven’t got your lights on”
I stopped, turned around and trundled back to the bloke, apologised for my two-fingered salute and thanked him for the warning. Fortunately he was OK about it.
So – sorry to all those “shouting drunks” and sorry to the group of Eastern Europeans. And sorry to all those drivers surprised by a dark blue Vespa looming out of nowhere. Oops.