A hard rain falling
December 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
It’s a long road in the rain, alright. He’s got his collar turned up but it’s no defence; the rain is driving as hard as the people hurtling by just to his right.
You’d not want to be out in this. You’d want to be inside, in the warm and dry.
He doesn’t care. Right now, he couldn’t care less. He’s not a man often pushed, but when he is… And now here he is, a dark figure against the trees at the side of the road, and no doubt sooner or later someone will call the Highways Agency, and one of their men will pitch up in a four by four, all brightly coloured as if they’re the police. They’ll try to tell him he shouldn’t be there, sir, and he’ll tell them not to bloody sir him, obsequious pricks, and if they try to touch him, corral him somehow, well. Did you hear about those women who ran out into the road a while back, Scandinavian I think they were? Bloody idiots, trying to get themselves and everyone else killed.
This man, though, is just walking, and what business is it of anyone else’s? He’s not harming anyone, and he doesn’t care what the bloody Highway Code says about people on motorways. They can wave their pamphlets at him and talk into their radios all they like. If they know so bloody much then he won’t need to tell them his name now, will he? And he doesn’t think he’ll be answering any of their other questions either.
And if they’ll get their sodding hands off him he’ll be off on his way, along the hard shoulder, with the asphalt, the barriers and the red lights zooming away as far as a man could see.