I drive a convertible. That fact really seems to get up the noses of an inordinately high number of male drivers. I have no idea why they take such exception to it but they do.
It's particularly bad in the summer when I have the roof down. I was once sat at a junction in town when a guy walking by shouted out 'snobby cow'. Bizarre.
The usual methods of showing their disapproval are to insist on carving me up as often as possible, driving so close behind me that I can read the headlines on The Sun on the seat next to them and having to beat me off traffic lights. The worst offenders are white van drivers (say no more) and men driving what I have branded middle management cars, Audis, BMWs, Volvos and Mercs...
Usually I rise above it and let them nearly take my wing off without reacting, mentally patting myself on the back. Today, though, I was in one of those moods. I spotted the signs as I sat at a red light on my way home. This time I was ready for him. I not only shot off the lights leaving him trailing in my wake but I carved him up beautifully too. Childish? Absolutely and completely but, boy, it felt good.
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