Oh the joys of driving on a Sunday. Yesterday morning, being the lovely person I am, I got up super early to drive my partner Andy to the station – not our local station, where he would have had to endure a bus journey part of the way to London, but to Royston station, fifteen or so miles away, so he could hop straight on to the train. Of course, being as British Summer Time had started during the dark hours of Sunday morning I earned bonus Brownie points as an hour of sleep time had vanished into the ether, so super early felt like super duper early.
Anyway, I’m waffling. Super early it may have been, but not so early that the Sunday drivers weren’t already out and about for their weekly pootle. Any British driver will almost certainly have encountered Sunday drivers (I’m not sure if they’re a purely British phenomenon) at some time or other. They drift aimlessly along in their cars, admiring the scenery, contemplating a Sunday roast or a cream tea, and resolutely ignoring mundane stuff such as their fellow road users. I had the pleasure of joining a procession of cars following a common or garden Sunday driver on the way to the station, but it was the one I encountered on the way home that really summed the species up to perfection. This particular Sunday driver was of the ‘One speed limit does all’ school of thought, and the speed he’d selected was 40 miles per hour. Open road single carriageway, 60 mph limit? Let’s do 40. Oh, is that sign telling us we’re entering a 50 mph zone? Shall we do 40 then? Yeah, why not. Oh what a pretty little village we’re entering now! How nice the speed limit is 30 mph so we can admire the quaint cottages and blossom laden trees. Oh, bye then Mr Sunday Driver. Still doing 40, eh?
I’d have roared with laughter had he been done for speeding!