That fucking petrol light, in the shape of a shoddy little gas pump. One that small could hardly hold any fucking petrol anyway. And it would cost about thirty quid. It sits silently in darkness, waiting for the best moment to strike. Silent but alert, searching for that flash of weakness; a long stretch of road with not a filling point within ten miles, or that day when I've rushed out the house only stopping to snatch my keys. The purse lays forgotten on a gritty floor, gathering cat hairs and splatters of Lloyd Grossman's overpriced sauce. This is when it clears its throat, a gently flicker of orange attracts my eye, down to that barstarding part of the dial that makes my knuckless turn white against the wheel.
The van perusing alongside, presses his dirtied boot further to the floor, in order to escape the freakish mime act occuring within the small KA. The girl within is red in the face, her mouth opens wide and closes rapidly in a chain of almost inexplicably conjoined swear words, ranging from the most offensive to the most bizaare. Occasionally she resorts to Buffy's swearing keyboard.
"Damn it I will beat you!" I laugh manically, coasting down the motorway, the car out of gear, just about pushing 50 miles an hour. A gigantic Tesco lorries swerves in the fast lane to over take me.
I didn't beat it. Daddy had to come get me.
Another day. Another day...
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