Still some few metres away from the zebra crossing to definitely mark any intention to make way across the street, a red hatchback slowed right down. Inside were two brunettes patiently waiting for the journey from one side to the other. This incident seemed odd. Could they have seen me the weeks before knowing my movements? Are they the sort to wait for the primetime to floor it? Or were they just kind?
Kind, most likely. Usually when I approach a zebra crossing I wouldn't start until a car up—sometimes down—the street is speeding up the to lines, then I step on and casually take my time, forcing the car to either run me down or slow down dramatically. I have survived so far and am still able to walk. Placid.
Tuesday, 31 July 2001 - 09:32
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