I would like to become a truck driver. There. I've said it. Note 'truck driver' and not 'bus driver' because not all chicks are bus drivers. Some are. But not all.
You see this morning, I had to take the hour trip from where I am attempting to take care of The Father while The Incubator is on her sojourn in London to my place of work. It is not a bad drive. Wanda is very used to it, you see. So she's almost on autopilot. But this morning was a little different.
I started work late today (diarise this day). And I had to drop Enormous Son of Maid off for his first day of high school. I got a little emotional, dropping ESM off. The child was born at the end of my standard 5 year. He was like my little baby. Only until he turned 5, of course, because then he became like my very large brother. He's enormous. Truly. Gives The Beast a run for his money. So big, in fact, that he's already been given a nickname - Tank. I suppose Enormous Son of Maid is a bit of a mouthful.
Anyway, I then took to the highway. The same highway that I take so often. But, I guess, I should have accounted for more traffic. By more traffic I mean I should have accounted for - no jokes - 42 000 000 trucks.
This is how I drive: with a can of coke (regardless of time of day), some minty chewing gum, and, depending on whether The Daughter is accompanying me on said trip, plenty of twaks. And, most importantly, very loud music.
I pretend that I'm in a rock band. With go-go girls. In fact, I'm such a huge hit that Beyonce is my back-up girl. Today I Romeo & Julietted the whole way to work. I threw in a few radio tracks too. There was even a Roxette number and I was getting so dressed for success that the cars around me were battling to keep on track. Ooooooo - and I definitely 'come and open up your folding chair next to me'ed. Regina Spektor (love her as I do) better watch out because when I get my posse together and we start doing cover gigs of hers - man alive! will she be out of be business. Also, when Larry decides to open his ears and sees me perform this particular track, he'll realise he doesn't want 'to make frown' and be 'a silly clown' anymore.
And so there I was: in my happy place. Singing. Smoking like a trouper. Chewing on gum like a common street slut. Until I nearly had my life wiped out by an arrogant effing truck driver. Now, don't throw all this 'save the truck driver', 'it's not their fault - it takes 700m before they can change out of second' at me. I don't give an eff. I like my life. I particularly like the being alive part of my life.
Are they blind? Are those mirrors on the side of their trucks decorative? Because look they don't, and move swiftly into fast lane going up bloody effing Key Ridge (Quayy Rijj for you, J - private joke) they do. It really effing irritates me. Not only because I value my life but also because I had to turn my music down to concentrate.
So, I've decided that I'd like to become a truck driver. Obviously they have extra lives. They're the feline of the human race. And I'd like to irritate other people intensely. I'd like someone to write a blog about me. I'd like to drive the whole way from Jo'burg in the fast lane. Sidling another truck at the exact same speed.
Oh, and at night, I think I'll drive with my brights on. Other drivers should be blind too.
Eff the truck driver.