The other day, while traversing a zebra crossing at a leisurely pace, a car almost ran over me.
‘Come on boyo, hurry up, will you? This isn’t a park!’ shouted the driver.
Indeed! My foot had barely touched the pavement when the car vroom-vroomed, rushing past me at great speed, brushing my back ever so slightly with its rearview mirror. Picture me, short and frail as I am, coughing on the pavement in the cloud of exhaust smoke he left behind, watching the hectic rush of cars racing down the boulevard, bemoaning the hastiness of our beloved century.
‘Where are all these people rushing to?’ I wondered, taking off my hat and scratching my head. ‘To death?’