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@beatbeatbeta
Having an Americanised accent puts you at a distinct disadvantage when dealing with Po', even though they asked what country I was from, I guess being Canadian isn't as important as I had previously thought.
Or perhaps they didn't hear me, because the refused to acknowledge my proper citizenship.
"Two things can happen when you go through a red light. You either get a thirty pound fine. Or you wake in the hospital and your legs are still stuck under some bus..."
Wow?
Also, "I don't know how they do things in America, but you won't find me going over there and breaking their laws..."
Here, red means stop. Green means proceed, carefully..."
Fair enough. And, "Thanks for showing some fucking respect to my country (said rather sardonically)..." before squealing away (in a Toyota Hybrid).
No fine, which was kind o them. This was on High Street Ken, and the best part was - due to traffic - getting to ride beside these two very patriotic specimens all the way up to Hyde Park, hitting every red light along the way, waiting patiently and smiling.
But I agree with MrSmyth, I don't understand why I'm in such a rush during my daily commute. It's just the fixed gear ethos, putting thunder into the pedals until nicotine addled lungs breath like a burlap sacks of smouldering coals and battery acid pools and festers in my kneecaps. There's no room for red lights in that equation.
Until the coppers gave me a stern chinwag, that is. There's a certain quiet respect, that unparalleled comfort in submission, while queuing up in a ragtag pelaton of neon and lycra, waiting to see yellow, so I can proceed carefully - you can almost hear it lilting along the air. I want to be one of them. Geared up the fuck to oblivion, knees shot out at 90 degree angles, too enamoured with chirping birds and mischievous squirrels to keep my eyes on the pavement. God help us if the smoggy sky happens to be shimmering blue, like smudged emeralds. Like it is right now, why the fuck am I inside writing this codswallop - goodbye.