When I Went Through The Window

November or December 2000, just about the 25th anniversary. Coming out of Exeter on the Bonnie, on the shortcut back road, up a fairly steep hill, for the Crediton road. Hatchback ahead indicated left, slowed and pulled to the left verge which, since I was maybe 15ft behind - had been all the way up the hill - I read as pulling over to let me pass. So I pulled out, accelerated, and the tart behind the wheel suddenly swung right. There was an entrance to a field on the right and she was turning. She was from Taunton, driving her mother's car, and lost. Suddenly I was heading for the right hand passenger door. I put my hand out to protect my face (open face lid). My fist hit the window, which shattered (the window) and I went into the car to my waist.

Bent the guard and smashed the headlight lens and the tacho. The Smiths magnetic speedo had stopped working the first time I rode the bike, so for three or four years I'd been estimating my speed with the tacho. For the next five years I just guessed (and never got a speeding ticket - and still haven't. Haven't had one since the Jota, must be 1990).

By the time the cops came I was shivering. It was cold, but I was probably having delayed shock. Anyhow they okayed me to ride the approx. 10 miles home.

But the copper who spoke with me was a young WPC, with long, blonde hair and absolutely beautiful! Add to that, she's wearing a police uniform. I'm standing there talking to her, thinking "this just isn't fair!" She was prettier than Anna Lee, at least as much as Glynis Barber and I've got to get the considerably less pretty than it was half an hour ago Triumph back home and I'm trying not to shiver and getting steadily less successful and I just want to stick my tongue down her throat!

Twenty-five years on and I'm still appalled by the injustice of it.

My quilted Reebok jacket didn't have a mark on it. I've still got it and apart from the pocket linings it's still pretty good.

 

Fair enough. Though I'll have to go to the PC to shrink it to a size that'll upload. You'll see there's not a mark on it (my fist hit first but really it was a forearm smash). Do I need to turn the pocket liners out too?

 

Yeah, no chance. I did briefly hope there'd be a further question she'd turn up on the doorstep with; while being concerned about the possibility too. I think I'd just harvested a crop but there was still plenty of evidence about.

After this prang, an old friend dropped by. He had the first digital camera I'd seen. Distinctly unimpressive resolution. I'd had Motorola mobiles for a decade or so - interestingly, it strikes me now, the same model I'd first used as a courier at the start of the '90s I bought at the end of the '90s - but not a smartphone by any means.

Anyhow he left the camera with me.



Note (just about!) no tacho.

 

Custard.

 

Her mother was in the passenger seat. She was a prune.

I mean in the purely non-racially offensive sense. As in sour-faced old...

... But I suppose the pair of them were shitting themselves throughout the ordeal. I was, of course, pissed off.