This is my time

Those of you sat in the cheap seats for while now will know that I have a slog of a commute to work.  And of course this necessitates an early start each morning in order to make sure I’m in the office looking perky and smug when everyone else arrives.

Despite working in London, I live in a small village in a very rural area  vaguely connected to society by a series of lanes.  At about 6.27 each morning, having shaved, showered and breakfasted I pull out of my drive with exactly 22 minutes to navigate these lanes to the train station to get on the train, find a nice warm corner and listen to music and dream.   I work to a meticulously timed and planned routine.  When it comes to travel plans, I am more Swiss than a piece of  Emmental covered in chocolate, wearing lederhosen and yodeling  in the mountains. 

But over the past few weeks something sinister has happened.  Some strange phenomenon has come and shattered my morning routine.  I’m not entirely sure what, I’m not entirely sure who and I’m not entirely sure why.  But at 6.26 every morning, a big slow van pulling a trailer goes past my drive and carries on all the way to the train station.

Do they know what they are doing to my blood pressure?  Do they not understand the stress and pressure they are putting me under?  Do they not know who I am?

Dear Mr. F**khead driving the aforementioned abomination.  Find your own time, find your own road.  Stay off my patch!