Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Or, as their friends refer to them: the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Well, it turned out to be a bad day for them. Seems they may be out of a job, for I’ve seen the true agent of our doom.
Now, as a creature of habit, I’ve mostly avoided the vehicular maelstrom that is school collection time. Until today. Pesky software gremlin jumped into my breakfast porridge and swam around till late-afternoon, delaying my daily baptismal in the local pool. My route takes me past a school, which I believe is a place were during the day they imprison children, mostly to keep them from scaring Daily Mail readers into early incontinence.
I would like to say I rode past the school. But it was surrounded by an impermeable wall of stationary cars. My initial thought was that some freak science experiment gone wrong had turned the school into a giant magnet that had reached out and yanked in cars from several streets around. Surely, considerate parents wouldn’t have ignored all the ‘no parking’ signs, the bright yellow zig-zag lines, the ‘keep clear’ notices, the threats of £120 fines. Surely they wouldn’t just sit there, blocking the road, choking out fumes, in a great mass of toxic, grinding metal. Surely.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have nothing on the Fifty-or-so Drivers of Bromley. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Meet your successor: Stupidity. And prepare to have your equine-elevated asses kicked so hard you’ll feel like you have given cause for Chuck Norris to become mildly miffed.
Now, OK, I suppose your blessed little angels may require the services of a chauffeur. The pavements could be dirty, after all. There are all kinds of unconscionable scenarios, so I salute you for doing the right thing. But you know, just a teensy, little element of criticism. I just have to let it out. I’ll try and be constructive.
You are morons. Your stupidity is so visible that it can be seen from space by a myopic astronaut. Park your car somewhere safe, somewhere where there aren’t signs warning, begging, pleading, for sake’s of your own children not to park. Switch off the engine. Walk the extra hundred metres to the gate. Your legs are unlikely to work loose and fall off.
Think for the briefest flicker of a moment. Think that this is the selfish, lazy example you are setting to your children.
You are not people. You are mulch. If your children follow this path, then I think we may be a teensy bit doomed.
