Should’ve taken the bus - Act I
Automotive tragedy in three acts. Starring me, my friend Jess, Numpty, several vehicles and the absurdity of insurance industry in its whole glory.
Do you know that meme photo of two dogs - one grinning like Nawrocki* at the sight of flares, and the other collapsing into existential despair? It’s the perfect illustration of how differently Jess and I react to the word camping.
Me - I love it, because a human returns not only to nature but also to factory settings: you only worry about whether you have somewhere to sleep, something to eat, and whether your backside is freezing.
Any dilemmas about whether your project will deliver all its KPIs in the final phase fade into oblivion.
Jess has quite a different attitude. She hates camping so much that for years she’s been gradually buying various bits of camping gear, trying to transform our survival-style trips into a night in a four‑star hotel. Despite such different approaches, for several years now we’ve gone camping almost every summer.
And so we were meant to spend the end of July around picturesque Hebden Bridge. The list of planned attractions included a visit to the Brontë sisters’ museum, local bookshops, and potentially a stop at Sylvia Plath’s grave. After packing my little Mazda to the roof and to the brim, we set off, having no idea that this would be our final farewell.
Mine and the Mazda’s, I mean. Please don’t panic - Jess is fine. (As fine as one can be while working for the NHS.)
We didn’t foresee the crash course we would have to go through (pun not intended), though there were signs.
The first appeared on the M1, when some genius, having missed his exit, decided to stop in the middle lane and wait until all drivers graciously yielded so he could turn. He probably suddenly remembered he fancied an oat‑milk latte. Never mind that we all risked our teeth and lives at that moment - the latte must be had.
The second sign revealed itself in full glory after passing Bradford. I think most UK residents are aware of the unique charm of that particular corner of the world. For my Polish friends, let me explain. Bradford is like Wałbrzych’s Sobięcin district**, only ten years ago and with a slightly more international character. If you want to gain perspective on where your life sits on the scale of hopelessness - that’s the place to go to. You’ll almost always come out on top.
After twenty minutes of battling crossroads that defy common sense, we reached the city limits. The campsite was about thirty minutes away. I politely stopped behind a white Toyota Yaris, and then something hit the back of my Mazda. When I got out, it turned out that the “something” was a silver SUV with a front grille and big enough to fit three Mazdas inside. It also contained a gentleman whose grey matter was directly proportional to his height. I spoke first:
“Hey, what happened?”
“Well, what do you mean what? You stopped.”
Umm, yes, I stopped, BECAUSE THAT’S HOW TRAFFIC WORKS, YOU NUMPTY. When someone stops in front of you, you also slow down and stop. To initiate this manoeuvre, observation of your surroundings is required - which, I infer, was disrupted by your browsing black tracksuits on Vinted and pondering whether £1.85 for a JD Sports bum bag is a good deal.
That’s what I wanted to say, but what actually came out was:
“No, not really. If you’d been paying attention to the road, nothing would’ve happened.”
And that’s when the tirade began:
That I stopped too abruptly (aside from brake lights, what other signal did you need? A lighthouse? Smoke signals?)
That it was just a “little nudge” (perhaps for you - the back of my car is now lying in a cemetery next to Sylvia Plath)
That his car cost as much as four of my Mazdas (yes, we can all see how much you’re trying to compensate for)
And that he could fix my car for me.
And there I saw, with my mind’s eye, a garage on the outskirts of Bradford that last saw a legal transaction in 1985. Absolutely not. I decided to use my insurance and cause the gentleman as much trouble as I possibly could. How naïve my faith in the insurance system was - more on that later.
Oddly enough, the man gave me his details without much fuss, though obtaining his insurance number took about twenty minutes of phone calls with his cousin’s brother’s mate on his uncle’s side. After about half an hour of me trying very hard not to step outside my own body, he drove off from the scene of this “little nudge”, and Jess and I were left on the roadside with a smashed car, a pile of camping gear on the pavement, and the thought of what to do with such a beautifully begun afternoon …
*Karol Nawrocki - the President of Poland; a previous hooligan (I know, don't ask).
**Sobięcin is an area in my hometown not exactly famous for its beauty.
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