Listening to Saturday Live on Radio 4 this morning, I was impressed by the poet Elvis McGonagall's use of his art to purge a bad holiday experience from his system. It occurred to me that I might do the same with my blog. So if you are the large man, in his sixties, with a big white beard and a lovely head of pure white hair, who alighted from his vehicle to shout across the road that you considered me to be a thick, bald - headed, b***ard - or was it a thick headed...no, I'm sure it's the first one - then this is for you.
Had you allowed me to get a word in edgeways, before getting back into your M prefixed, Maroon Rover 216 with a National Trust sticker in the rear window, I would have explained that the reason I pulled my vehicle forward blocking the path from your junction preventing you from crossing the stream of traffic, was that you hadn't, no couldn't have seen, the ambulance that I had spotted in my mirror overtaking the stream of vehicles you were about to cross. You couldn't have seen the ambulance because your view was blocked by the big white van behind me. I can only presume that you didn't even notice the ambulance pass, because you were busy gesticulating at me and operating your audible warning instrument in an aggressive manner. Had you emerged across the stream of traffic you would have pulled into the path of the ambulance.
There now, deep breaths Crofty, that feels much better.
Oh, one more thing, I consider myself to have a mature attitude to my gradually receding hairline; but, I am most definitely not yet bald. I consider that insult to have been particularly barbed coming from one with such an obviously lush growth of hair.