Where's Your Emergency?

I was crossing the road outside the old fire station. The road was clear, it was kind of quiet this morning. I was nearly across the road to the tram stop when some guy in a Toureg came around the corner drove up behind me and tooted me because I hadn’t quite completed crossing the road, , despite him having, perhaps, less than100 metres to a red light.

Really, I thought?

He stopped at Albert Street lights. I walked along the tram stop in the middle of the road. I caught up with him.

I couldn’t resist. “That got you a long way, didn’t it mate,” I said. 

He wound down his window, “I’m sorry.”

“That got you a long way, hey?” 

“So why don’t you get off the fucken road so we can drive you fucken, moron,” he said. Angry as you like. Not even 8am.

The light changed to green. 

“Buddy, where’s your emergency?” I asked.

He drove off.

"I hope you die of a stroke someday, today," I called after him, but he was well out of earshot.

There was no one else on the tram stop, don't worry. I wasn't sounding the same as him, oh, well, I was sounding the same as him, but there was no one there to hear it. You know, the tree falling in the forest...