OK OK, it had to happen ….. My first observation about, ‘The Chelsea Tractor’. To be honest it’s more about the ignorance of and lack of adherence to the Highway Code by the drivers of SW3, the majority of which just happen to be driving 4x4s.
Bearing in mind that Chelsea happens to be one of the most densely populated residential areas in Central London, this flagrant flouting of driving decorum really gets up my nose (careful, this sounds like a rant, Ed). What I particularly find offensive is drivers not stopping at pedestrian crossings. For some reason it happens rather too frequently on the crossing outside Johnson’s the dry cleaners on Sloane Avenue usually when I’m struggling home in the wind with half a dozen freshly pressed shirts and a couple of suits blown around my head making me look like I failed the audition for, ‘The Invisible Man’.
Seriously though, such is the speed at which they shoot past I can’t even crane my neck over and shout, ‘Oi, you….’ through their windows in Millwall fan abuse the ref. mode just to get it off my chest, well that’s what I thought until last week that is.
Dry cleaning done and perspiring nicely post 6km jog, this time I was about to cross with two carrier bags full of shopping when.., ‘Shheeeeeoow’ like the bat-mobile on PCP a black Maserati shot through at such a pace it caused my sweaty fringe to lick my face depositing about half a cupful of salty liquid on the pensioner next to me. For some reason, with hands full and thus without the option of defaulting to the usual two fingered salute, I proceeded to make myself as large as possible. In hindsight, I can only assume that this was based on some primeval fight or flight programming instilled within my DNA which at some point over the past few million years must have bumped into that of a Kimono Dragon. The resulting manoeuvre had me lean back, take a deep breath, lean forward and then kick out my right foot a la Beckham bending one (the full carrier bags providing excellent counterbalance) whilst simultaneously raising both my arms in lateral raise weight lifting fashion. Unfortunately I resembled a cross between a trainee Ashtanga Vinyasa Instructor, a Dutch Milk Maid and Basil Fawlty – scaring the pensioner, alerting the entire staff in the dry cleaners, falling flat on my arse and providing excellent entertainment for the twelve or so people sucking on their lattes in Starbucks window. Needless to say I get my coffee from Cafe Nero on The Kings Road now.