I've been working in my super-secret undersea laboratory on concentrating the sarcastic what-the-fuck gesture into super-dense particles of disdain. Eventually, I've have enough to build some kind of handlebar mounted particle cannon that can wither an errant motorist's soul and his surrounding tin can to dust in a moment, leaving nothing other than a vague scent of pine air freshener.It would have been useful today. On the way into London, coming down past Peckham Rye, a van overtook me. Perfectly, no problem. But the silly moo in the Golf (tinted windows and all the trimmings, natch) following him just couldn't wait, so she hurled herself around the traffic island in an attempt to pass us both. Misjudged, so oncoming traffic meant she met the van when she tried to pull in. So they both halt and start the mutual moronic motorist stand-off. I tootle by with a cheery, if sodden, good morning. For I know, they're still there now. It's Peckham, after all.On the way home, dropping down through the hellish post-apocalyptic hinterlands of South Bermondsey toward the Old Kent Road, a speeding lorry decided the clip the bend in the road just where I was about to be. Tyres pretty much brushed the pavement. Fortunately a judicious brake and hop onto the pavement took me out of harm's way. Lorry didn't have any identification and was, as far as I could tell, (barely) under the control of one of the lower orders of primate. Reassuringly, it was carrying one of those little Mitsubishi (?) vans on the open back that appeared to have been secured with nothing more than household string. Given the way it was wobbling about, discretion took valour to one side and gave it a good talking to, and off into the distance he went before I could make any gestures grand enough to demonstrate my true operatic levels of annoyance. Only then did I remember that I could at least have taken his number plate details and Fedexed him an unstable nuclear weapon labelled 'shake well'.
