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January Driving winds throw themselves violently at his car, rocking the mobile rust-bucket like a canoe in a tsunami; the blades of the windscreen wipers - despite their speed and effort – are fighting a losing battle against the driving snow; the blizzard continuing to obscure his piss-poor vision. This is not a good night to be driving. He doesn’t exactly feel safe. The little Citroen is perhaps four, maybe even five years past its’ best, and even driving the thing on a hot summer’s day with no breeze and an empty road in front of him doesn’t exactly fill him with confidence, so tonight, with the worst weather conditions seen in the area for a decade, he can feel his nerves rumbling in his guts. With perspiration coating his forehead, his desperation to get to his destination - and to do so safely - is becoming visible, and even the freezing temperatures within the tin mobile (his fan gave out its’ last gust many a month ago and thanks to his finances, he’s not been able to afford the maintenance required) cannot stop the rivulets of sweat from running into his eyes. He feels like a blind man driving a death trap on the road to hell... |
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